


I Can't Say I Love You (But I'll Try)

by obvious_apostate



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: 5+1 Things, But not quite, But they are besties, Canon-Typical Violence, Dancing, Drowning, Fluff, Friendship/Love, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, Love Confessions, M/M, Minor Injuries, Other, Platonic Cuddling, Platonic Soulmates, Post episode 5, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, Unrequited Love, geralt/yen is a plot point not the focus, if you will, let geralt be a good friend 2kforever, of different sorts, pretty much the show setting but with the books/games friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-01
Updated: 2020-04-20
Packaged: 2021-02-25 17:15:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 23,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22499653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/obvious_apostate/pseuds/obvious_apostate
Summary: Jaskier may or may not be in love with his closest friend.(It’s the former.)Geralt may or may not feel quite the same way.(It's the latter.)They'll make do.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 176
Kudos: 813





	1. Chapter 1

When Jaskier was very young - many years before he ever went by that name, when he was only known as Julian - his mother would tell him a story each night before bed.

He’d loved those stories, every one, even if he didn’t always understand them. 

Like the one about the mermaid who died of a broken heart. Who gave up so much for a man who would never love her back, who made great sacrifices for that prince, who lost her voice and eventually her life. 

“Why didn’t she just find someone else?” he had always asked, feeling a sort of confusing sadness as his mother tucked the blankets in around him. “Seems silly to follow the prince around on hurting legs when he won’t even love her back.”

“Love can be complicated, darling,” she would reply, kissing the top of his head before moving to blow out the candle beside the bed. 

“He could try harder, if he wanted to,” he’d speak matter-of-factly to the darkness, and hear his mother chuckle quietly.

“It’s not that simple, and that might be one of life’s great tragedies.”

His mother was a very smart woman.

Unfortunately.

A few decades on, and Jaskier can’t help but think he understands that mermaid quite well, as he follows a man on stiff, achey legs, trudging through mud often well past his knees, and wondering, distantly, why fate couldn’t have saddled him with someone who was generally less interested in hunting monsters in swamps.

But he isn’t entirely like that mermaid. He won’t be giving up his voice for anyone. That’s a damned certainty.

And certainly won’t be losing his life. He trusts Geralt with that quite handily. The mermaid couldn’t say the same.

Maybe love wasn’t really that complicated.

Just a bit of a bitch.

“Alright back there?” Geralt’s low voice drifts back towards him, although the witcher doesn’t turn around. His sword is drawn, and Jaskier can imagine bright yellow eyes darting back and forth, vision enhanced with a potion and looking for signs of movement in the murky water.

“Oh yeah, completely fine,” Jaskier pulls his leg out of a particularly awful patch of muck with a terrible squelching noise, and grimaces as more mud slides down the inside of his boot. “I hated these clothes anyway. Can’t wait to burn them later, good riddance.”

He is, in fact, quite fond of the trousers he’s wearing. 

Or had been, before they had started this trek.

Oh well. That’s what he gets for wearing his favourite clothes out during monster hunts. 

“Someday you’ll learn,” Geralt replies, the slightest trace of a smile tinging his voice. Sometimes he seems pretty adept at reading thoughts, as well, even though that has nothing to do with his witcher senses. “You didn’t have to come.”

“And what? Expect to get the proper details from you later? Not bloody likely.”

A small shrug, a noncommittal grunt, and then they fall back into silence. 

For a moment.

“What are we looking for, again?”

“A bloedzuiger.”

Jaskier nods knowingly, despite the fact there’s no one to see it. “Right, right. Of course. And what is that, exactly?”

“Bit like a leech, but pretty big. And it’s got two arms. A lot of teeth.”

“Charming.”

“It’s also got the potential to explode. It’s full of acid, could get a little nasty. If I tell you to run, run.”

“At your word, witcher.”

Jaskier knows it’s dangerous, following his friend on hunts and contracts, never mind on the long, empty roads between distant towns. He also knows he probably wouldn’t do it, if it were any other witcher. 

And it’s also more dangerous for Geralt, in a way - having someone else to keep an eye on. But during the few times he didn’t tag along, Jaskier could only ever think of everything that could go wrong, of the witcher alone, and injured, and maybe worse. 

So he would run, sometimes, when Geralt told him to. Usually, he did not.

He’s brought out of his wandering thoughts when Geralt stops several paces ahead of him, raises a hand to silently tell the bard to halt. Jaskier nearly trips over a root submerged in the swamp, but manages to keep his balance and then glances around.

There’s a low thrum of noise from the insects around them. A few soft rustles through the low-growing bushes that manage to make such a place home. The occasional croak of a frog. 

Seems normal. Unpleasant, but normal. 

Jaskier risks another question, voice quiet as he does. “What is it?”

“Something’s off.”

Jaskier nods again, ignores the shiver of unease that passes through him at those words and blames it on near nonexistent wind. “A fair few things are off. The half gallon of mud in my boots, for a start. I -”

“Jaskier,” Geralt’s voice is calm, but urgent. “Back up. Slowly.”

He’d seen why, even as the witcher spoke his warning. The water in front of them is shifting lowly, but from too many directions to be caused by the gentle wind.

He does as told, and makes a conscious effort to step over the tree root that had nearly tripped him up the first time

Except, it isn’t there anymore. His careful footstep doesn’t hit anything until it touches the swamp-bed. 

He’s read a fair few books in his time, and had yet to come across any tales of swamp trees that liked to move about on their own. 

“Um, Geralt? I think that maybe -”

Something strong and unexpectedly quick wraps itself around his ankle, and Jaskier’s thoughts turn out to be entirely correct when his leg is pulled out from underneath him and he’s suddenly swinging a dozen feet above the water. 

He might be screaming, and Geralt might be yelling something, but it’s hard to focus on either of those things when the surface of the swamp, near motionless a moment before, all but explodes in an enormous rush of water. It’s accompanied by a tremendous growl and further mud being flung about as another half-dozen or so tentacles, all similar to the one that’s already holding him, splash out of the water and rush towards the witcher. 

It’s hard to tell what’s happening - he’s not exactly being held in a comfortable or even mildly stationary manner - but Jaskier, upside down, catches a glimpse of a flashing sword every couple moments. After the first few seconds of panicked pleas for help, he’s managed to tamp down on the terror, a little bit, and thinks he can wait this one out.

Until the rest of the monster makes it’s appearance, anyway. 

There’s another shift in the water, and a huge, hulking mass lifts itself from the murk. It’s lumpy, and brown, and disgusting, and Jaskier can’t see much in the way of any features.

Except for the teeth.

There’s an awfully large mouth, and an awful lot of teeth. 

“Geralt!” he would like to think the word just sounds like a warning, but it’s probably more of a harried suggestion to _hurry-the-fuck-up_ when the second syllable of his friend’s name comes out of his mouth as a rather undignified shriek. The monster pulls him closer towards it’s open maw, and the combination of the stench and hot air it’s breathing towards him is revolting.

He’s staring at all those teeth, and thinking distantly, somewhere past the terror, that that might be an important detail for the song that’s bound to come from this. But then again, Geralt’s a ways off, a dozen yards away at least as he’s slicing through tentacles in a frenzy. Jaskier amends his thought slightly, and rather hopes that Geralt will also think to add the addition to a song instead. 

Would Geralt even bother to write one? It would be terrible, obviously, but Jaskier hopes he’d still try. It’s the thought that counts, sometimes. 

But then he’s suddenly falling, and his thoughts are brought back to the present rather than the theoretical with a painful splash as he hits the water head first. 

When Jaskier breaks the surface a moment later, he’s coughing up muddy water and taking no notice of the odd ringing in his ears. He’s in the middle of a fight between flailing, semi-maimed tentacles, attached to an enraged lump of flesh with too many teeth, and a witcher lacking a silver sword. 

Geralt is wielding his second blade, the one far less effective against monsters, and paying no mind towards the bard trying to find his footing in the middle of the chaos. All of his focus is on dodging, and hacking, and the occasional burst of Aard or Igni. 

There’s a detached, motionless tentacle floating beside Jaskier, several feet long and severed quite cleanly despite the fact it had been raised high in the air.

He stares at it for half a moment longer, then back to Geralt, the witcher down to an inferior weapon because he had thrown his first one to cut through the monster’s appendage before it dropped Jaskier into its waiting mouth. 

But he wouldn’t have much of a chance without it. 

“Geralt! Your medallion!” 

The witcher appears entirely focused on keeping the monster’s attention on him and him alone, but he must have heard Jaskier’s shout, because he takes half a second to pull the silver medallion from his neck, snapping the chain and tossing it towards the bard.

He catches it, by some miracle, and is grasping it tightly with shaky, muddy fingers as he wades his way in the direction the sword must have landed. 

The medallion’s magic will sense the runes on the sword, he’ll be able to find it.

He just has to be quick enough. 

It’s difficult to focus on the medallion’s tiny vibrations, letting him know whether or not he’s on the right path, when his hand is already trembling for entirely different reasons. It’s difficult to ignore the monster versus witcher fight happening behind him when he’s meant to be retrieving a sword.

But he does it, somehow. Jaskier stops when the vibrations can’t be mistaken for anything else, when he can actually see the medallion moving slightly in his open palm, and he pockets it in favour of using both hands to scour the bottom of the swamp.

A sudden, sharp pain across the tips of his fingers lets him know he’s found his mark, and he doesn’t hesitate as he tightens his grip to hoist the sword out of the water. The resulting, deepened cuts are barely noticeable thanks to the relief he feels at the sight of the silver blade, and he only takes half a moment to grasp the handle instead with his uninjured hand before he’s splashing his way back towards the fight. 

“Geralt! Here!”

The witcher, who seems to have been holding his own quite well with the exception of a rather nasty gash above his right eye, is already backing up towards him, and when they’re within arms reach of each other Geralt doesn’t break his rhythm, simultaneously dropping steel with one hand and grabbing silver with the other before he’s renewing his attack on the monster and giving it no choice but to begin a sluggish retreat.

Jaskier, keeping an eye on the - now far less evenly matched - fight, takes a moment to retrieve the other sword instead, with much more care than he had the last one. Once it’s safely in his hand he backs off a ways, sure to stay out of the witcher’s way while he finishes his gory task. 

He watches with a strange sort of detachment, the steel blade heavy in his left hand while he feels blood slowly drip off the fingertips on his right. The pain is more noticeable now, and he feels rather nauseous, and his ankle is aching something terrible - and he doesn’t feel it worth acknowledging any of that until he watches Geralt stab his sword into the monster’s flesh a final time. 

Once he’s sure that the monster is dead and Geralt is safe - completely, entirely, sure - he promptly turns away and vomits into the filthy water. 

When he turns back a few moments later to see the witcher hard at work, sawing monster teeth out of its head with his dagger, his stomach flips uncomfortably again. But he just wipes his mouth on an already thoroughly ruined sleeve and begins the short trek towards his friend, taking more care to favour his injured ankle this time. 

“I’m glad you’re alright,” Geralt says as he approaches, placing a bloody tooth in a bag tied to his belt before starting on the next. “Thanks for the help.”

“Wouldn’t have been needed, if you hadn’t helped me first. Thank you, for, you know. That.”

“Of course.” Geralt is still adding teeth to the bag, almost casually, but the sincerity in his tone does something to settle Jaskier’s heart back to a more steady rhythm. 

“Geralt?” 

“Hmm?”

Jaskier uses the sword still in hand to poke the monster’s body almost cautiously. The flesh is resistant, for a moment, before the blade slides into it with a near horrifying ease and he recoils in disgust. He speaks over Geralt’s low chuckle.

“Have you ever _seen_ a leech before? Because let me tell you, this isn’t fucking it.”

Geralt laughs again, and finally closes the bag and turns away from the monster’s corpse. “The villagers were wrong. It’s a zeugl, not a bloedzuiger.”

“Oh, right. I mean, obviously.” 

Geralt holds a hand out for the steel sword, and sheaths it on his back with familiar ease. “It’s strange, they usually show up closer to human settlements, not so far out here in the swamps...”

Jaskier is usually an attentive student when Geralt is explaining the finer points of his trade - there’s usually a lot of good details to fall back on when he needs an extra line here or there for compositions - but his head is feeling a touch foggy, now that it’s quiet again and the only monster in the vicinity is incredibly dead. The witcher’s words sound distant, but he can’t help but notice - with a strange, sharp clarity - the cut above Geralt’s eye continuing to sluggishly ooze blood. Jaskier thinks he should do something, wipe it away maybe, and it’s a strange realization to see his hand already moving to make the gesture before he’s even finished the thought. 

But Geralt catches his hand, with reflexes far superior to his own, well before it reaches his face. His grip is firm but gentle as he holds it out for a quick inspection. “You should have said something.”

Jaskier had honestly forgotten about the injury again, somehow, during his short walk over to the dead zeugl. But looking down now, at the deep cuts across the pads of his fingers still dripping blood despite the mud and partial coagulation, the pain flares up anew. His head gives a rather unpleasant spin, and he’s glad there’s nothing left in his stomach to bring up. 

And, staring down at his hand, he knows he won’t be playing any instruments anytime soon. “Looks worse than it is, I’m sure it’s nothing.” 

But he doesn’t pull his hand away.

Geralt’s other hand is holding his elbow, and Jaskier realizes the swaying sensation he’s feeling might have translated to more than just the inside of his head. The witcher lets go of his bloody hand and instead grips his chin, forcing the bard’s gaze to meet concerned golden eyes.

Jaskier would be a damned liar if he said he’d never imagined a similar scenario before. A distantly similar scenario, anyway, because any daydreams he may or may not have had never involved a disgusting corpse a few feet away, or a swamp as a backdrop, or quite so much blood and muck. 

A little blood, maybe. That would make for a better story. 

And better clothes, for sure.

Maybe some music? Not his own, but -

“Concussion,” Geralt nods grimly as he lets go of Jaskier’s face, and his scattered thoughts pause as he considers this new information. 

“That’s funny,” he says, finally, and doesn’t resist at all as Geralt gently pushes him back in the direction they had come some time before. 

“Is it?”

The witcher’s hand stays at his back, most likely at the ready in case he starts swaying again, but Jaskier decides he doesn’t much care why it’s there. He’s just glad that it is. 

“Well, just look at you? Near perfectly fine. Maybe better than when you walked in here. And me? The damsel in distress, a right mess and I didn’t even do anything.”

A damsel in distress...maybe a little exaggerated. He was a bit helpful, after all - never mind the fact his help wouldn’t have been necessary if he hadn’t been there in the first place - and he’s not even wearing a dress.

But a lovelorn mermaid...maybe.

Maybe he was that mermaid after all - his foggy mind supplies the thought almost unwillingly, as he looks down at his mangled fingertips. It wasn’t his voice he lost, but it was the next most important thing.

“What are you mumbling about mermaids?” Geralt asks, voice conveying humour and concern both, and Jaskier’s brain slips a little further into alarm when he realises he was speaking aloud. 

But, apparently - luckily - not all that clearly.

“Nothing, fuck off. Mind your damned business, witcher.” His voice is completely incapable of providing even the slightest bit of scorn or annoyance. Instead he just sounds tired. 

Geralt only smiles faintly, and doesn’t say another word during their slow trek back towards the town on the outskirts of the swamp. 

~

“Be careful for awhile,” Geralt says sometime later, tying off a final small, white bandage around Jaskier’s fingers. “No writing. Definitely no playing.”

They’re back in their small room at the inn just outside town, sitting at the end of the bed with a small fire crackling cheerfully in the opposite corner. The water in the tub down the hall was now filthy, near the same colour the water in the swamp had been, but they’re both clean, and now Jaskier can’t think of a better idea than falling back on that bed and sleeping for the next three days. 

“I’m an invalid,” he replies woefully, wiggling stiff, bandaged fingers and not bothering to react to the dull rush of pain the movement brought on. It’s far from intolerable, especially since Geralt had given him...something...when they had returned to the inn. Some mixture that was an unsettling green colour, and tasted vile, but it had already done much to clear the fog in his mind and ease the pain in his hand and ankle. For the latter he wouldn’t even know anything was wrong now, if not for the dark bruising encircling his leg where the tentacle had wrapped around it. 

“Temporarily,” Geralt agrees easily, standing up to cross the room and throw more wood on the fire. Jaskier watches him go, watches the firelight glint off the medallion around the witcher’s neck - back in it’s rightful place after he’d returned it, before tossing his ruined outfit in the corner of the room and replacing them with cleaner clothes for sleeping.

“I’ll be no help at all, you’ll have to leave me behind,” Jaskier is just speaking for the sake of it, to keep the room from falling into silence. If there’s quiet, he’ll have the opportunity to consider the fact that what he’s saying might actually be true. 

The prince left that mermaid behind, left her in pain, left her to die alone...

“You must have hit your head harder than I thought,” Geralt’s tone is still light, but there’s a slight frown on his face as he turns back to the bard sitting on the bed. “If you’re thinking there’s any chance I’d leave you behind. Move over.”

Jaskier does as requested, stunned silent as he processes the witcher’s blatant, unexpected words. His hands move to twist together without thinking about it, but when he realises what he’s doing he holds them still in his lap instead. “Oh. Right. Well, that’s a relief.”

Geralt hums his agreement, eyes closed and hands folded underneath his head as he’s already stretched out on his side of the bed. “You should sleep.”

He knows that, of course he does. But now his mind is reeling again, for reasons very different than a monster and a concussion. He wants to ask questions, a lot of questions. 

But he won’t. He can’t.

“Thanks, Geralt. What would I do without you?” His words are lighthearted as well, even nonchalant, but there’s an edge of truth to them that he doesn’t really want to think about. He remembers voicing similar thoughts, once, outside a crumbling house in Rinde, and is grateful that this time, at least, the circumstances are much different.

The witcher is smiling slightly, but his eyes are still closed. “Have an estate and a wife and a couple dozen children, most likely.”

Jaskier makes a halfhearted attempt to fluff his pillow with one hand before settling back beside his friend. “Sounds miserable. And that poor woman.”

“I didn’t say they were all hers.”

Jaskier stares up at the timber roof, hands carefully clasped over his middle. “I guess we’ll never know.”

His tone remains light, but his expression is somber and he’s glad Geralt isn’t watching him. He meant those words to be not so much a flippant remark, but more of a hope, maybe a prayer towards any number of deities he’s not entirely inclined to believe in. 

_I don’t ever want to find out what I’d do without you._

He understands how the mermaid in the story felt, but he’s oh-so-lucky to have a man very different than the uncaring prince beside him now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shoutout to [this tumblr post](https://obvious-apostate.tumblr.com/post/190575658946/caticoo-its-sej-suzu-juuzou) for inspiring this whole dang fic.
> 
> Thank you for reading! <3


	2. Chapter 2

All things considered, Jaskier often finds himself less interested in taverns when he can’t play some music and make a little coin.

There’s still beer, and (sometimes) good food, and (less often) interesting company, but they’re just a duller affair when he can’t do much to provide some entertainment and (usually) receive some compensation for his trouble. 

So he’ll need to focus more on the beer, instead. Leaning against the bar, he pulls the mug that was just handed over by the barkeep closer to him with his uninjured hand and offers the man a gracious smile in thanks. 

It’s been well over a week since their encounter with the zeugl, and his fingers are well on the mend, but his personal witcher-turned-apparent-physician was very clear when he said to keep using his hand as little as possible.

At the moment, said witcher is outside in the stable, making sure that Roach is settled for the night, and Jaskier knows from experience not to expect him for some time yet. His friend would often go for a walk, alone, before joining him in whatever inn they found themselves at night, and even before that Geralt was...particular, when it came to the care and comfort of his mare. 

It was sweet, although Jaskier also knows better than to tell the man as much. 

He observes the small crowd, wonders if there’s someone who might be able to play an instrument and be some musical accompaniment if he decides to sing later, and then figures it doesn’t matter because he can’t trust someone else to do a proper job of it anyway. 

He’s just received his second drink when the conversation at a small table to his right catches his ear. Attuned as it is to words such as “witcher” and “monster”. 

“Aye, that’s the one. White hair, yellow eyes, the Butcher of Blaviken. Saw him outside, I did,” an older, grizzled man is speaking to the others at his table, a much younger crowd of four men. They’ve all got mugs of their own in hand, and there’s a great many more empty ones already sitting on their table. They’re all wearing similar clothes speckled with sawdust, and similar expressions of content intoxication. The younger bunch are likely either sons or apprentices, and Jaskier assumes they must all be enjoying drinks together after a day of work. 

He frowns at the old moniker, the one Geralt hates above all other names he’s suffered throughout his long life, but is glad the witcher isn’t present to hear it and takes a long drink in order to still his tongue.

One of the young men leans in towards the group, as if to tell a secret, but he makes absolutely no attempt at lowering his voice. “I heard he took a contract recently, not far from here. Farncombe, I think. Told the mayor he’d kill the monster, headed off into the swamps.”

That was true, and Jaskier stays silent. 

“It was a zeugl, huge and dangerous -”

“What’s a zeugl?” another of the men asks, the youngest of the lot by the looks of it and likely still a teenager.

“Like a great, beastly slug. Huge and fast, lots of teeth and nearly ten feet tall.”

Not entirely true, but Jaskier appreciates the details nevertheless. Makes a better story, accurate or not. 

“So that witcher took the money, went into the swamps, and didn’t come back. He stole from the town and took off in the night without a trace!”

Jaskier frowns again and lowers his drink. 

“The zeugl attacked Farncombe that night, no one could stop it. Not a single survivor,” the man is solemn, but sets his mug on the table with far more force than he likely realized. 

“That’s not true,” Jaskier says easily, loud enough for the men to hear him, but not enough to gain the attention of the entire tavern. 

The man telling the story glares at him. “And what do you know of it?”

“I was there,” he considers joining their table for a moment, all confidence and truthful tales, but thinks better of it. “I can tell you the story, if you’d like. Truly one for the books. And ballads, when I get around to it. I -”

“You’re calling me a liar, then?” the original storyteller is still sitting, remains calm, but there’s an underlying current of anger in his voice. The man clearly didn’t enjoy being corrected. 

Jaskier understands the sentiment. And carries on regardless. “Not at all. Perhaps you only heard a different version, not one from the source. I can tell you the true story, that’s all.”

“The story _is_ true, sir. I heard it myself from my cousin, who saw it all firsthand.”

“Did they?” Jaskier feigns surprise, raises a hand to cup his chin as he regards the man in thoughtful contemplation. “Interesting. Miraculous, really, since you just said there were no survivors.”

The man, already red-faced thanks to the ale, flushes a deeper shade as the oldest and youngest members of his company both chuckle into their drinks. The other three don’t look nearly as amused. 

“Geralt killed the zeugl, just as he said he would. And the town is just fine. As can be, anyway, being beside a great fucking swamp and all,” Jaskier picks up his drink again, raises it in a toast towards the man and his table. “Oh, and, a zeugl isn’t a slug. Just so you’re aware. You know, for next time you tell the story.”

Completely unexpected, and impressively quick for one in his current state, the man is on his feet, his chair knocking backwards from the movement. “It’s. A. _Slug!_ ” he roars, and the tavern falls into a shocked silence. 

Jaskier raises a hand up in a gesture of defeat, and is quite proud of himself for managing not to laugh, to barely crack a smile at all. “Alright, alright. Fine. Great. It’s a slug, whatever you say, my friend. Who am I to challenge your incalculable knowledge of monsters and gastropods, or hellish combinations of the two?”

The man seems about ready to accept the halfhearted attempt at conciliation, and makes to sit back down in his seat. He hits the floor, hard, a moment later, having already forgotten about the knocked over chair, and the room breaks into loud laughter, including some of those at his own table. 

The old man, still chuckling, raises his mug in turn towards Jaskier. “Why, sir, you’re none other than the bard who accompanies the Butcher on his travels, you must be!”

Jaskier, who had been ready to let it go a moment before, shrugs, almost nonchalant, but can't keep the smug grin from his face. “Oh, right. That’s exactly who I am. So I guess I do know a thing or two about it, after all.”

The inn’s patrons quickly move on to this new revelation, buzzing with questions and paying no mind at all to the angry, embarrassed man making his way to the tavern’s door.

“Tell us the tale, master!”

“What really happened with the Butcher in the swamp?”

Jaskier, positively delighted they’ve all ended up here despite the fact he can’t play his lute, sets his mug down on the bar so he can use both hands to help tell the story. “Well, if you insist. But first things first. It’s not the Butcher of Blaviken. It’s Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf, my dear friend and the greatest of witchers...”

~

Several tales and many drinks later, Jaskier stumbles out through the tavern’s back door with the intention of answering mother nature’s call. The cool night air is a pleasant change from the inn’s hazy interior, and he grins to himself as familiar words from his most popular work come floating out to him, courtesy of a receptive, drunken crowd.

Anyone in that room who had ill thoughts towards the witcher had surely come around over the last hour or two, if the cheerful round of singing is anything to go by. 

Not bad, for a bard without a lute. 

His head is buzzing pleasantly, but the sky is clear and the stars are bright so he’s not quite ready to go back inside. 

He makes the short trek across the yard to lean against the fence, and offers a cheerful, slightly slurred hello to the sheep and the pigs on the other side of it before gazing skywards again. 

It’s beautiful, and peaceful - the only sounds being the quiet shuffling of livestock and the muffled singing and laughter on the other side of the tavern’s door - and he’s entirely content to just stand, and stare, and think.

It would be nice to have someone to share the moment with.

A pig wanders by, close to the fence, and Jaskier leans over slightly to pat the top of its head. He’s drunk enough to be willing to share that moment with just about anyone.

“Heard pigs can’t look skywards,” he says conversationally to the animal, who doesn’t feel inclined to reply. “That’s a shame. It’s dazzling up there.” He notices the water trough a few feet over, and gestures to it. “Check out the reflection, there. We’ve got to make do with what we have, after all. It’s nice, isn’t it?”

The pig has no intention of looking at the trough, instead content to stand and receive the attention being bestowed upon it as Jaskier continues to pat it’s head almost absentmindedly. 

“My mother told me a story once,” he continues wistfully, chin propped in his free hand as he leans against the fence. “About stars. Said they were reflections of those who care for us, keeping an eye out and watching over us. That’s sweet, don’t you think?”

He’s so engrossed with his one-sided conversation that he doesn’t notice approaching, unsteady footsteps.

Not until there’s a heavy hand on his shoulder and he’s roughly spun around. 

“Watch it! We were - we were having a great conversation about stars, we -”

A swift punch to the gut effectively ends Jaskier’s stream of words and he’s hunched over, wheezing slightly. But there are no other attacks on his person, so he glances up after a moment to see a few vaguely familiar faces. 

“You embarrassed our friend,” one of the men says, as he and his two compatriots leer down at the bard. “Called him a liar.”

“He _was_ telling lies, about _my_ friend,” Jaskier retorts, using the fence for support to help him stand straight again. “And so what? Now you’ve come to defend his honour?”

“We don’t appreciate being called liars,” the man continues, as his friends move to grab Jaskier’s arms. Despite their varying degrees of inebriation, he can’t do much to shake them off. “Especially by cocky little out-of-towners such as yourself.”

The alcohol and his pride both win out over the logic in his mind pleading for him to just shut up. “Clever, really clever, I’ve never heard such an insult. Except that I did, once. She was adorable, just four years old. A little more articulate than you lot, though.”

He is entirely expecting the next hit, but that does little to dull the pain when the man’s fist connects with his face. He can feel his lip split, but takes half a moment to run his tongue along bloody teeth and is relieved to find them all still in place. 

Now _that_ would have been unfortunate. 

The man gestures to his friends, and they make short work of hauling the bard over the fence, much to the dismay of the animals on the other side. Jaskier notices one pig in particular run off, and silently curses the fair-weather nature of his new friend. 

“Anyone going to be missing you before morning, storyteller?” the man grabs the front of Jaskier’s shirt to keep him steady and face to face. “Or shall we just kick your arse now and be done with it?”

“Geralt, probably, I think,” Jaskier whistles lowly, and ignores the sting of pain when the movement causes his lip to split further, more blood dribbling down his chin. “You’ll probably be regretting your choices very, very soon.”

“The witcher? Well, I don’t see him here now, do you?”

That...was true. He hasn’t seen Geralt in hours now, now that he thinks on it. 

True, and concerning. But not concerning enough to keep his mouth shut, apparently. 

Somewhere in the back of his mind there’s a voice, very witcher-like, warning him to shut the fuck up. Jaskier shrugs. “He’s not the only one. Your wife will be missing me something terrible, as well.”

The man’s hands stay at his side, and there’s a thin smile on his lips, and that’s somehow more frightening than fists and angry words. 

“Bring him over here,” he says finally, and Jaskier follows his gaze towards the trough before renewing his struggle. But the other two men are taller, and much more solidly built, and all but frogmarch him towards the water.

“Boys, come on now, this has all just been a bit of fun, this isn’t nece- ow!” One of them kicks the back of his knee and it buckles, shortly followed by the other and he’s suddenly leaning over dark water sparkling with reflected stars. Somehow, they aren't as beautiful from this perspective. “Has anyone ever told you fellows you seem to follow a trend of overreaction?” he asks, watching a sticky line of blood drip into the trough. “What do you say to calling it a day and heading back inside? A round on me?”

The man in charge grabs a fistful of his hair and shoves him face first into the water. 

The answer to that last offer was a resounding no, then.

The water is cold, and the combination of that with the rush of adrenaline is far more effective in sobering him up compared to anything previous. And it’s fine, he can handle this, surely a few farmboys aren’t going to kill him over a silly disagreement, he just has to wait - 

He’s yanked out of the water, and he coughs, wishing very much to wipe away the wet hair and streams of water from his eyes, but his arms are still being held tightly behind him. “All good, then?” he asks instead, feigning cheerfulness when instead he’d like nothing more than to start yelling for his friend. 

Where the fuck _was_ Geralt? Maybe they’d already done something to him, maybe -

Jaskier’s head is pushed beneath the water again, before he can shout, and soon he’s focusing on little else besides the quickly depleting oxygen in his lungs. He’s struggling to no avail, it’s been too long, much longer than the first time -

Out of the water again, and he gasps, the cough more of a choke this time, but he doesn’t have time to do anything else before he’s dunked yet again. 

He tries to resist, but his head is pushed further downwards. His limbs just feel heavy, now, and he can’t manage to move them to try and struggle again. His mind is fuzzy, not at all in the comforting sense brought on by alcohol, and he’s starting to see a different sort of stars at the bottom of the trough.

They aren’t beautiful, like the ones in the sky. 

Or are they?

They’re growing larger and brighter, at any rate, and it’s nice to focus on something other than his aching lungs - definitely, _definitely_ not a mermaid, the thought feels very far away, but somehow, still important - and then they’re suddenly gone.

His head breaks the surface and he’s hauled to his feet in a single motion, but he’s too dazed to stand and the men on either side of him are near entirely supporting his weight. He coughs up water, an alarming amount, and can’t seem to catch a shaky breath.

Jaskier hears the man talking, but it sounds distant, as though he's still beneath the water. “Just having a bit of fun was all. His words, not mine.”

“I said let him go.”

Geralt is walking towards them, quick, measured steps as he reaches for the sword on his back. He looks fine, other than the unfiltered fury across scowling features. Jaskier’s seen that look before. It’s made many a man or monster turn tail and run. 

To him, it just brings overwhelming relief. 

But then the men do as they were told, letting go of Jaskier’s arms and backing away quickly. He wasn’t expecting the sudden return of autonomy, and neither were his trembling legs that do little to support the sudden weight. His knees buckle again, of their own accord this time, and he pitches forward.

And when his head meets the edge of the metal trough, there isn’t a single star to be seen in the blackness that greets him. 

~

It’s the cold that wakes him. 

Either that, or the accompanying shivers, because he can’t seem to keep his body still.

One of those, or maybe the splitting headache. 

He holds a hand to his forehead as he groans and opens one eye.

He’s so very clearly in some sort of cell, all stone walls with an iron door on one side, low, flickering light coming from grates high in the walls, and a steady dripping from several spots in the roof leaves the entire floor covered in a thin layer of water. 

It’s not the first jail Jaskier’s found himself in, but it might be the dampest.

He’s propped against one of the walls, a thin, foul-smelling blanket wrapped around his shoulders doing little to fight off the chill. 

To his left, more or less in the opposite corner, the three men from the tavern. All in a heap and seemingly out cold, a fact for which he’s very glad. To his right -

“Geralt?” his voice is quiet, hoarse, and he frowns at the sound of it. 

The witcher is sitting beside him, back straight, kneeling, eyes closed. 

“Geralt,” he tries again, voice straining as he tries to raise it, and he reaches out to touch the man’s arm.

When he makes contact, Geralt’s yellow eyes open, and he leans back against the wall in a more comfortable position as he glances over the bard. “Jaskier. You’re okay.”

“Okay sounds pretty fucking subjective to me,” he rasps before clearing his throat. It does little to improve the sound of his voice. “Where are we?”

“A prison cell.”

“Yeah, I got that, thanks. Why?”

Geralt sighs and glances towards the door. “We were drunk,” he says, monotonous, as if reciting a very boring script. “Drunk and disorderly. We’ll be let out in the morning, once we’ve sobered up.”

Jaskier scoffs, but the look of disdain on his face is likely ruined somewhat thanks to his chattering teeth. “Really.”

“That’s how it went,” Geralt couldn’t be more deadpan if he tried, and he says nothing else as he continues staring at the door. But he holds a hand out, low at their sides, a silent gesture to remain quiet.

Given the circumstances, Jaskier does so. 

After several more minutes, Geralt lowers his hand and turns back to his friend. “Alright, they’re gone.”

“Who?” Jaskier had no way of possibly knowing anyone could have been on the other side of that door, but then again, he doesn’t have a witcher’s senses. 

Just a gods-awful headache and yet another bloodstained shirt.

“The guards. We’ve got to sound remorseful when they’re around, make sure they think we’ve learned our lesson. Make sure we get out of here in the morning.” 

“That was your version of sounding remorseful?”

Geralt cracks a smile, ever so slightly, and Jaskier can’t help but do the same. 

“We’re not all trained actors around here,” he looks to the bard again, and the grin fades quickly. “Now. What the fuck were you doing?”

“Me? Nothing! I’d only been telling stories, you know, real ones. The fine gentlemen over there just had a hard time accepting the truth of them, I suppose.”

“Hmm,” Geralt is still staring at him, and Jaskier has spent enough years with the witcher to be able to tell the differences between all the hmms and the hums and the sighs. 

This one was very much the “I don’t believe you for a fucking second” one. 

“So maybe I said a couple of things I shouldn’t have, as well. Maybe.”

“They were trying to kill you.”

“Quite the overreaction on their part, if you ask me,” Jaskier tries to pull the filthy blanket around his shoulders a little more tightly, but it’s too small to be of much use. “Where were you, anyway?”

_Why were you almost too late?_

“In the tavern,” the answer surprises Jaskier, but Geralt continues. “Had been for awhile. Didn’t want to interrupt your...real stories. But when you went outside, you didn’t come back, so...”

“So you followed me after I went outside to take a piss,” Jaskier nods, as though it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Bit immodest for you, isn’t that?”

Geralt ignores the teasing as his brows furrow. “And a good thing I did,” he grumbles, voice low, conveying annoyance and, maybe, something else. 

Something else that Jaskier usually has the tact to not bring up, but his head must be doing a number on him because his words stagger onward before he can stop them. “Were you worried about me, witcher?”

Geralt purses his lips, and the glower doesn’t leave his face. Nor does it quite reach his eyes. “Come here,” he says finally and his voice, while always gruff, has already lost some of its roughness. 

Jaskier, who’d had a cheeky, if not entirely genuine, grin on his face, feels it drop slightly at the words. “I’m sorry?”

“You’re frozen.”

Jaskier just stares at his friend, perhaps for longer than he thought, because finally Geralt just sighs and shuffles over himself. He stops when they’re sitting flush beside each other, and puts an arm around the bard’s trembling shoulders. 

In short order, Jaskier finds himself all but tucked up against the witcher’s side, and if he didn’t know better he’d be thinking he really must have hit his head something awful, that he must be hallucinating.

But the not-hallucination is warm, near surprisingly so, and almost immediately the shivers begin to subside. Then again, Geralt could control and regulate a fair few aspects of his body that normal humans had no hope of ever achieving, so maybe adding body temperature to that list wasn’t so out of the ordinary. 

“Geralt?” he speaks after a moment, so softly, not sure whether he should crack a joke or snuggle in or pull away entirely, and his rapidly beating heart is doing little to help make that choice for him. He can’t see the witcher’s face from his position, and he doesn’t dare move to do so. 

“Hmm?”

That hmm sounds indifferent, the go-to catch all hmm. As in, Geralt is far from perturbed, and Jaskier immediately feels some of the tension melt from his body. He relaxes, slightly, hands carefully settled in his lap, and he considers the idea that he actually fits here quite nicely. Underneath Geralt’s arm, nestled into his side, head dropped onto his shoulder before he can think much more of it. 

Maybe like he belongs there. 

But that’s one ballad that won’t ever get written. 

“Did you need something?” Geralt asks, and Jaskier suddenly remembers that he’d initiated a conversation.

Yes. “No,” he yawns, then, and presses his fingertips to his temples in a fruitless attempt to relieve some of the painful pressure in his head. “Cozy, though, isn’t this?”

“You ought to stop knocking your head about,” Geralt says, rather than responding to Jaskier’s comment. “Won’t be so lucky one of these days.”

“Oh, but I _am_ lucky. All the time.”

An amused scoff escapes the witcher’s lips, and Jaskier thinks he must assume that he’d been talking about something else entirely. But he’s happy to let that particular miscommunication be. 

They’re quiet for a time, and Jaskier might or might not truly be considering falling asleep on the witcher’s shoulder, when another thought comes to mind and he speaks aloud again with that terrible, raspy voice. “Were you actually drunk?”

“No.”

“But you’re here.”

“Yes.”

“You could have just explained -”

“And left you in here, with them, alone?”

Jaskier’s eyes flicker back towards the unconscious men, still unmoving, still far from a threat. “Only a true friend would give up his night in a real bed to sit through it in a moulding prison cell, instead,” he says lightly, but there’s a weight to his words, full of unspoken thank you’s and other things besides. 

“We’ll stick together,” Geralt says eventually, quietly, after enough time has passed that Jaskier’s almost fallen asleep again. But there’s a grin in his voice, small but genuine, and it brings a smile to his own face to hear it. 

“No matter what,” he agrees with another yawn, leaning into the witcher’s side just a little more as his eyes fall shut again. 

Maybe he just imagines it, so close to the brink of sleep, but he’s fairly certain he feels Geralt’s arm tighten around his shoulders. 

But imagined or not, the thought warms him as much as the actual person at his side, and after that it’s easy to drift off entirely, to dream of clear skies and twinkling stars, one of them shining so much more brightly than the rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I first started planning this fic there were far less bodily injuries for this poor bard. Whoops.
> 
> Thanks for reading! <3


	3. Chapter 3

“I got you something.”

Jaskier looks up from the fruit stands he’d been browsing - halfheartedly, because he’d also been busy speaking with the pretty girl running said stands - to see his friend beside him, holding something sharp and shiny in his outstretched hand.

He clicks his tongue and shakes his head slightly, and makes no move to take the blade from the witcher. “Now, Geralt, I think you’re confusing our trades.”

“I’m not.”

“The pen is mightier than the sword, witcher,” he offers Geralt a shrug and the woman a quick wink, and the latter makes a casual attempt to hide her grin. 

“The pen won’t do much to help defend yourself when you’ve chatted up the wrong woman in the wrong town, bard,” the witcher responds frankly, and Jaskier deflates slightly when the woman laughs.

“Fine,” he takes the dagger from Geralt, who has the good grace to only look slightly triumphant. It’s small, the blade only six inches or so and wrapped in thick leather, but it still feels heavy and he lets his hand drop to his side. 

The witcher is already off again, likely in search of the supplies they had actually been looking for when they stopped at the market of the nondescript town they’d been passing through, and Jaskier turns back towards the woman when he feels a hand on his arm. 

“He might be right,” she says, the laugh still evident in her voice, along with something else. “But this wasn’t the wrong town.”

Oh. Interesting. “And were you the wrong woman?”

She’s sweet, with lovely, long blonde hair and soft eyes conveying both kindness and playful mischief. Someone he’d get along with very well, no doubt. 

“Perhaps you can find out tonight?”

He’s well-practiced with such propositions, both suggesting and receiving, and wastes no time in taking the woman’s hand with his own, gently kissing the back of her hand. “My dear, I can hardly wait.”

She laughs again, more of a giggle really, before pulling her hand away to point down the lane. “I live just down that way. You’ll be around once the market is over?”

He assures her that he will be, and doesn’t look back when Geralt decides they’re ready to leave and they ride out of town an hour later. 

~

“What would you rhyme with river?” Jaskier asks, much later, sitting beside the fire Geralt had built once they decided to set up camp. It’s earlier than they might usually consider stopping for the day, there are still a few hours of daylight left before the sun will set behind far off hills. But the valley they found themselves in is beautiful, and they’re set up on the break where the trees turn to a field full of flowers, a small river moving lazily a few dozen feet away.

Definitely beautiful. Inspirational, even, someone like a bard might say. 

“Where’s the knife I gave you?” Geralt responds with a question of his own, not looking up from cleaning his own silver blade, careful and methodical, as he did every day. 

Jaskier taps his quill against the notebook in thought. His hand is near healed by now, the injuries only noticeable by a little tenderness and small, slightly raised scars along his fingertips, but he’s just happy to have a pen in hand again. “Giver...shiver...deliver...”

“You’re going to get delivered to an early grave if you don’t learn to defend yourself,” Geralt looks up, voice darkly serious, and Jaskier feels compelled to meet his eyes. 

But then he scoffs lightly, a casual attempt to hide his discomfort, and breaks his gaze in favour of looking back down at the notebook pointedly. “That doesn’t rhyme at all. Honestly, why do I even bother...”

“Jaskier.”

“It’s in the saddlebag, alright? Happy?” 

“No.”

“Shocking,” Jaskier doesn’t look up when Geralt stands and moves past him. But he does sigh heavily when the now-familiar dagger is tossed at his feet a moment later. 

“Keep it on you.”

“Why?” he gestures, exasperated, out towards the sunny field and its colourful flowers and sparkling river. “What could possibly be about to kill me right now?”

“That’s not the point,” Geralt is sitting again, watching him intently across the low fire. “You’ve never used one before.” It’s a statement, not a question. 

“Not...intentionally. Strapping a blade to one’s side sort of loses the whole carefree, welcoming effect we singers often strive for. You know, the aspect that’s sort of essential for a successful career in the business.” But Jaskier finally picks it up, almost reluctantly. The blade is still hidden in the leather sheath, but the handle is shining in the sun, as are the several small, yellow garnets inlaid along the guard. 

“It’s meant to fit inside your boot, or a jacket. Not visible.”

“It’s pretty,” he admits, turning it ever-so-slightly back and forth so the sun will sparkle off the gemstones. 

“I’ll teach you how to use it,” Geralt says, surprisingly patient. “Just to defend yourself. Keep yourself safe.”

The unspoken words are obvious, and Jaskier frowns at the blade in his hand. 

_Keep yourself safe - when I’m not around to do it for you._

“It would make me feel better,” Geralt continues after a moment, still near painfully earnest, and Jaskier is finding it difficult to meet his eyes again. “Knowing you have it. And that you know how to use it.”

Turns out Geralt knows just which cards to play, when he needs to, and Jaskier groans. 

“Bastard.”

“That a yes, then?” 

Jaskier, holding onto his final, wavering line of defiance for as long as he can, still refuses to look up at Geralt, but he can hear the relief in the witcher’s voice. 

It’s a strange, comforting revelation. 

“Come on.” He hears Geralt stand again as he says the words, walk the short distance around the fire to stand beside him, and thinks he’s finally managed to school his face into an expression of displeased resignation so he risks a glance upwards towards the witcher. 

Geralt is silent, but watching him with the fond little smile that so few other people ever get to see, and it cracks his resolve almost immediately. 

“Yes, alright. Fine. Let’s get this over with,” Jaskier sets his notebook to the side, then holds a hand up so Geralt can pull him to his feet. 

He follows Geralt a short ways away from their camp, offers some snarky question asking whether or not that’s to prevent anyone in particular from falling in the fire, and isn’t at all surprised when he doesn’t receive an answer. 

“Alright, let’s see it,” Geralt says instead as he turns around, apparently deciding the current patch of grass they’re standing in is better than the rest they’re surrounded by. 

Jaskier finally pulls the blade out of the sheath, and after only a moment’s hesitation tucks the latter into his boot.

Geralt went to the effort of getting it for him, the least he can do is store it as was intended. 

Although, he’s already doing much more than the least, given the dagger in his hand and all. 

He looks at it again now, gripped loosely in his hand. It really is a beautiful gift. The blade shining in the afternoon light, absolutely pristine and definitely brand new. 

Jaskier would very much like to keep it that way. 

Geralt speaks up again, demonstrating his near-creepy talent for seemingly reading the bard’s thoughts at times. “I’ve never taken you as someone to go out of your way to avoid violence.”

“Me? Of course I don’t. Just look at the company I keep! I’ve just never really learned to use a weapon. Never had to.”

“All the more reason to know what you’re doing now.” Geralt shrugs slightly, as though he finds that slightly difficult to believe, and Jaskier is reminded of the very different childhoods they each experienced. 

“Violence is a part of life. Natural as sleeping. Singing. Travelling town to town, regaling the exploits of witchers and kings alike. Often both very violent. I make my very living based on the brutality of others,” Jaskier is waving the dagger about as he speaks to emphasize his points, but when Geralt raises an eyebrow pointedly at his last few words, he lets it fall back to his side and continues with far less enthusiasm. “I just don’t want to be the one responsible for all that myself, if I can help it.”

“Unless it’s asking a djinn to kill someone, suddenly and unpleasantly,” Geralt offers, helpfully.

Jaskier raises the blade again, pointing it in the witcher’s general direction. “Ah, but that wouldn’t have been me.”

“Threatening elves, when you’re their prisoner no less.”

“Threatening them with a witcher.”

“And asking that witcher to protect you at any number of balls and banquets. That hasn’t always ended peacefully.”

“No one’s died. Yet.”

“You were quite willing to leave a woman to her certain death, even after she saved your life,” Geralt’s tone is still light, but there’s an edge to his words now. They’re sharper, maybe more meaningful. 

Jaskier smiles at him with feigned patience, a look he usually reserves for those such as innkeepers who feel the need to re-haggle his payment after the night’s music has already been played. “Your point has flown so far over my head, friend, that I’ve no hope in catching it. Now shall we get on with this?”

“As you say,” Geralt holds up his hands in surrender, and his smile is more genuine now. “Let’s start by adjusting your grip. Hold it closer to the guard, like this...”

And so it goes, Geralt a strict yet unexpectedly patient teacher, and Jaskier a rather unwilling but still receptive student. They go over how to hold the blade, and where, and when. And then how to deflect, and where, and when. Jaskier remains attentive, and does his best, but when Geralt moves on to attacking, starts pointing out the best places to aim for - “there are arteries in the neck or the thigh, or if it works in the situation, underneath the ribs, just here, that’s very effective” - Jaskier, feeling only slightly nauseous, calls for a change of topic. 

Geralt crosses his arms. “It’s important to know a human’s weak points.”

It’s fascinating, in a terrifying, morbid way, how Geralt can speak of things such as maximum efficiency maiming with such detachment, when he feels it necessary. 

Witchers having no emotions was a load of bollocks, Jaskier’s known it for years now, but in situations like this one, he understands where such misguided thoughts may have come from.

“Geralt. If ‘a human’ is attacking me, I won’t be analyzing them for weak points. I’m going to stab them, probably poorly, in whatever body part is closest and then fucking run.”

“And what if -”

“I’ll stab them again. Three times, tops. We all have our limits,” he cracks a smile, hoping to ease some of the intensity in the air around them, and is sorry to see it doesn’t seem to do much. “We can study human anatomy later, alright? Let’s do something else while there’s still daylight.”

That seems to do the trick. “Let’s go over some footwork.”

Jaskier is even happier for his suggestion having worked soon enough. A defensive stance, all focused on where hands and feet are positioned, is the most familiar aspect of the entire training session.

“A bit like dancing, isn’t it?” he asks, shifting his weight back and forth between his feet with entirely more enthusiasm than was necessary - or even wise, maybe, considering the look on Geralt’s face. 

“I wouldn’t know.” The witcher is still very much in training mode, all work and no play and no laughs and no fond little smiles, and Jaskier tries again.

“Oh, you mean they didn’t teach you a waltz or two in your big scary castle? The school full of little witcher boys and not much else? No time for that between training with a half dozen weapons and learning how best to slash open arteries at the tender age of twelve?”

It’s blunt, perhaps near offensively so, and Jaskier doesn’t know a lot about the location or the training regimen of witchers. No one does, except for the witchers themselves. But he’s read a book or two, and he knows a little. 

Knows enough to think he’d probably be rather unimpressed to have such words flung at him now, if he were the one to have gone through it. 

Knows enough to understand he and Geralt are not the same in many ways, but that to often respond to insults with offhanded sarcasm is definitely one of the ways in which they are. 

Geralt stares him down for a moment, and Jaskier continues his near absurd hopping on the balls of his feet, and then the witcher replies with a perfectly indifferent tone. “Of course they did.” 

“Oh really?”

“I just skipped those classes.” There’s no real trace of a smile on his lips, but his yellow eyes are softer, warmer, and Jaskier considers it a win all the same. 

“The rebellious days of youth.”

“Not enough blood, not a trace of gore. Not interesting at all, you understand.”

“You know damned well that I don’t.” Jaskier stops moving, finally, and tucks the dagger still in hand carefully into the sheath in his boot. He stands straight again, hands on his hips, and gives a deep sigh to try and settle the sudden rush of nerves. But he’s on a roll now, so he continues. “Why don’t we do it now, then?”

“Do what?”

“Dance, you idiot. It’s a life skill, and oh so similar to your swordplay, when it comes down to it.”

“Dancing is not a life skill.”

“It is, it’s just the same. Think about it. You’re the blade, you’re twisting your way around armour and under ribs, except those ribs and armour are actually drunken nobles and courtly intrigue.”

Geralt looks far from convinced, and Jaskier raises a hand in nonchalance as he offers his next, blander suggestion. “Alright, well, it’s still a good skill to have. Might come in handy one day. And it’s fun.”

Geralt’s still staring him down, and Jaskier’s about ready to give up, but then the witcher surprises him with his next word - surprises them both, judging by the look on his face - “Fine.”

“Fine?”

“Show me what to do,” Geralt sheaths his own dagger that he’d been using for demonstrations, and stands waiting expectantly. 

“Oh. Um. We don’t have any music.” Truthfully, Jaskier hadn’t expected in the least to have made it this far, and now he’s not so far off from panicking entirely, but then the witcher scoffs with little genuine scorn. 

“If you of all people can’t provide a little music on command, I think that makes you a pretty shit dancing instructor.”

“Okay, ouch. Cut me where it hurts, why don’t you?”

“Just under the ribs,” Geralt nods a little, and smiles. Finally. 

And so it goes, Jaskier an only slightly hesitant teacher, and Geralt a rather uncertain but nonetheless receptive student. Jaskier hums a tune and they go over a few of the most popular dances found in courts and ballrooms, all specific steps and slow spins and stiff arms, and Jaskier thinks he’ll get through it all without his heart beating straight out of his chest. 

But then, of course, Geralt does always love to mess up his carefully laid plans. 

“You said this was fun,” he says offhandedly, but Jaskier isn’t one to miss the hint of a challenge in his voice. 

“There’s often a difference between the useful dances and the fun ones. I thought you’d prefer the former.”

“Let’s try another one. Something faster. Something for a backwater tavern, not a noble’s ball.”

Jaskier exhales sharply, blowing hair away from his forehead, all dramatics in a hopeless attempt to hide his nerves, before nodding and holding his hands out. “Hold my arm, here, and my hand with your other one.”

The sun is much lower in the sky, just starting to disappear below the horizon, but Jaskier is fairly certain the fading daylight will do little to hide his burning cheeks from the witcher’s eyesight.

It's another scenario he may or may not have thought about a time or two, but while the swamp had been some awful, distorted version, this time might be even better than his daydreams. Just the two of them, and a flower-dotted field with it’s soft, natural light is far nicer than a crowded, smokey tavern, even if there isn’t any actual music. 

There are other words he could use to describe it, but he decides not to focus on that, nor on Geralt’s large hand clasped with his own.

Fuck it. Not everything needs flowery prose or to be compared with scenarios that only exist in his mind or the occasional line in a song, and he’s going to simply enjoy the moment for what it is. 

“A lot less formality, really,” he starts, and is impressed with the confidence in his own voice. He starts moving, slowly so Geralt can follow the steps. “Left foot, right foot, left, right over left, left, right. Add a lot of twirling, and you’re ready to dance that backwater tavern down.”

“I’ve got it,” Geralt says, after another couple rounds of steps. There’s confidence in his tone too, which is just as well because Jaskier has known for a very long time that the witcher is fantastic at a great many things, so dancing might as well be another one of them. Geralt looks up towards an imaginary corner of their imaginary tavern, and speaks politely to their imaginary musicians. “Music, please? I think we’re ready.”

Jaskier laughs before beginning another song, voice quiet, as seems fitting for their idyllic surroundings. And perhaps the song itself isn’t quite suitable for the setting - fishmongers and their daughters and all that - but it starts relatively slowly, gives Geralt a bit more time to get his feet under him, so to speak. 

Though it seems he was being cautious for no reason, as Geralt wasn’t merely boasting when he said he’d got it. His steps aren’t perfect, but they’re sure enough that Jaskier can match them easily, and he lets Geralt transition into the lead without breaking rhythm. His friend is grinning as he watches their feet move as they twirl about, soft and joyful and so very human, and Jaskier can’t imagine what he was worried about before. 

He’s not worried about a thing in the world. 

He continues to sing for his audience, probably one of the most important he’s ever had even if that audience is only one. His voice grows a little louder as the tempo picks up, and the spinning a little more erratic when Geralt joins in with some humming of his own. 

And he’s almost loath to end his own song, to finish this strange, wonderful thing they’ve started, but it happens all the same and he’s very aware of the emptiness in his hand when Geralt lets go of it a moment later. 

“I take it back,” he says, still grinning, and Jaskier can’t feel too badly about the loss of contact when he’s on the receiving end of such a look. “You’re far from a terrible teacher.”

“I’m glad you’ve realized sense,” he agrees pleasantly, slightly out of breath due to the combination of singing and dancing, and sits himself down in the grass to lay back and stare up at the sky. It’s a darkened shade of blue, the sun near entirely gone, and the first few stars are only beginning to make themselves visible. 

Geralt sits beside him, leaning back on his hands to look skywards as well, and Jaskier enjoys the following companionable silence almost as much as the previous minutes. 

Almost. 

“We’re a good team,” he says eventually, because he can only deal with silence, however peaceful, for so long. And it’s a safer thing to say than some other thoughts currently tumbling around in his mind. 

_And we're good for each other._

“A good team,” Geralt echoes, almost thoughtfully, but Jaskier is glad to hear no trace of doubt or offence in his words. Just contemplation and soft agreement. 

“Stabbing and dancing, a lethal combination.”

“You’ve got to keep practicing that first part.” There’s no intensity to Geralt’s voice though, not like before, so Jaskier only hums his vague agreement. And then, to his surprise, the witcher changes the topic again. “Who taught you to dance?”

“My mother, mostly. It was one of her favourite things to do. That, and tell stories.”

“You take after her, then.”

“I hope so,” Jaskier places his hands behind his head, content to talk towards the sky and know his friend will hear him just fine regardless. Geralt didn’t often ask about his life, life before they met, so he’s going to stretch out that simple question as far as he can. “So her favourite was blending the two together. She used to tell me about a town that couldn’t stop dancing. Danced until their feet fell off!”

“Sounds like they were cursed,” Geralt replies knowingly, objectively, and once again Jaskier is sorry for the lack of bedtime stories and fairytales in the witcher’s rigid upbringing. 

“Maybe. Maybe they just really liked to have a good time.”

“Maybe.”

Jaskier risks a glance sideways, through the taller stalks of grass, and is relieved to see a small smile back on the witcher’s face. 

“There was another one, too,” he continues. “About a mermaid. She traded her tail for some legs thanks to a sea witch. She could dance better than anyone, but it caused her incredible pain to do so.” 

“Why would she bother, then? Why go through all that just to dance?”

Jaskier frowns slightly as he considers the words and turns away from his friend, who is gazing intently towards the sky with that small, soft smile still in place. 

“I’m not sure,” he says, after a moment. It’s easier to tell a lie than to think about the truth. “I can’t remember how it ended.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all ever listen to the fishmonger's daughter on repeat for an hour in order to write a scene? Not sure I'd recommend it, honestly.
> 
> Thanks for reading! <3


	4. Chapter 4

There was a routine when it came to high-society performances. 

Whether it was a royal ballroom or a glorified field behind some lesser noble’s home, the evenings often panned out much the same. 

Jaskier would sing, play his lute, sometimes with accompaniment and sometimes without, and always, always have a dozen new friends and enemies each by the end of night.

Geralt would loiter at the edges of the proceedings, partake in the variety of food and drink presented with varying degrees of interest, and always, always be ready to step in and help his friend when necessary. 

It always seemed to be necessary, at least once.

And when this particular banquet had started, a birthday celebration for a reputable lord in Cidaris, Jaskier had assumed it would go no differently than the rest. 

“Not much of a party,” Geralt comments quietly, leaning against the wall of the large room, all intricate tiled floors and engraved pillars and painted walls, and sounding far from upset at the thought of it. They’re both off to the side, away from what little fanfare there is and equally uninterested in making a scene for the time being. There are hardly more than a couple dozen people to impress so far, anyway. 

“They haven’t even finished announcing the guests,” Jaskier doesn’t look up from his lute, finding it somewhat difficult, but not impossible, to do any last minute tuning while making little to no sounds. 

Geralt continues to sound unimpressed. “When do you think they’ll bring the food out?” He gives the sleeve of his doublet an uncomfortable tug. “I can hardly move in this,” he adds, and Jaskier can’t help but think the man is simply searching for things to complain about. 

Well, fair enough. They both have reputations to uphold, after all.

“But you look oh so dashing,” he replies with a quick smile and a quicker wink, twisting the final peg on his instrument before leaving it to hang from the strap across his chest. Hands now free, he reaches over and smooths a near-nonexistent wrinkle from the fabric on Geralt’s shoulder. “Positively dapper.”

And it’s true - the garment is well-fitting, a lovely shade of darker green that Jaskier had picked out himself. He always chose their outfits, because events such as this one were usually the only times Geralt would agree to wear a colour other than black. 

He’d complain, usually, but he’d still wear whatever it was Jaskier decided on.

With new clothes and clean hair, the witcher always cleaned up exceedingly well, and it was likely only the permanent half-scowl that seemed to find its way to his face during such evenings that kept many of the ladies away. 

“Hmm,” Geralt ignores the fussing and gestures vaguely towards the crowd, slowly growing larger with each new announcement that they duly ignore. “Recognize anyone?”

“Not yet. But that’s not to say they won’t recognize me.” The look of exasperation sent Jaskier’s way isn’t so effective when there’s also a tiny smile at the corners of Geralt’s lips, so he only sighs dramatically and places his hand back on the witcher’s shoulder. “Because of my singing, of course.” 

“Of course.”

“You should try to enjoy yourself, Geralt. Loosen up a little,” Jaskier smiles and waves at a group of young ladies talking amongst themselves a short distance away, shooting the pair curious glances every so often. They giggle and blush and turn back to themselves, as they always do, and he knows at least one of them will approach them before the night’s end. As they always do. 

“I can’t loosen up, these sleeves are too tight.”

“Put your newfound dancing skills to good use.”

Geralt scoffs and crosses his arms, all skepticism and disinterest. “With this lot?”

Jaskier laughs quietly. “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t know you were so particular about your dance partners.” He turns back to his lute, so the witcher won’t see the rather smug grin on his face. 

The evening has gone on like so many others before it, and there was no reason to expect it would not continue to do the same. 

No reason at all, until there very much was one.

The herald’s voice, until now only background noise to their casual conversations as he announced all sorts of dukes and lords and knights and viscounts, cuts through Geralt’s current opinion of which pies should be presented for dessert later with a strange, sharp clarity. 

“Lady Yennefer, of Vengerberg.”

Their heads both snap towards the room’s entrance with near frightening synchronicity, though likely for very different reasons. Jaskier only takes half a moment to confirm he’d heard correctly - and yes, she’s standing there, radiant as ever, extravagant black and white silks and an expression of almost-polite indifference on almost-perfect features - and then he’s glancing back towards the witcher, who in turn only has eyes for one. 

Geralt’s face is a mask, expression betraying nothing, but Jaskier has known him an awfully long time. More than long enough to see the myriad of emotions flickering in focused golden eyes - surprise, concern, a certain sort of affection that he’s seen before.

He’s seen it before, but he’s never been on the receiving end of that look specifically. 

He’s seen it before, whenever they cross paths with the sorceress.

“Well, fuck.”

And he’s impressed with himself, really, to hear his own voice sound so blasé when his heart has settled itself so firmly to be level at his feet. 

The witcher still hasn’t broken his gaze, and Jaskier looks across the room again. Yennefer either doesn’t notice them (unlikely) or is making a great effort of pretending not to notice them (immensely likely) as she gives hollow smiles and flawless curtsies to other patrons of the banquet.

“Are you...are you alright?” he tries again, has half a mind to reach for Geralt’s arm again, but then thinks better of it and holds his hands in loose fists at his sides to stop himself from fidgeting instead.

They’ve seen Yennefer a handful of times since their original meeting in Rinde, and while Jaskier had never been privy to specific details - regardless of his questions - it was obvious that none of those instances had ever ended...well. 

And he’s actually somewhat surprised when Geralt answers him, gruff, but also unexpectedly honest. 

“I’m fine,” he says, and finally turns to meet Jaskier’s eyes. “I’m -”

Jaskier will never find out what else Geralt is, because then the herald is calling his name, calling for music to accompany the host’s entrance, and it’s a near impulsive response that finds his hands moving towards his lute.

But his brain catches up with the motion, redirects one of his hands and he gives Geralt’s arm a quick, gentle squeeze. “Be careful,” he says softly, with no time for more words, and then he’s walking towards the centre of the room, fingers playing well-known chords, voice confident, not betraying his current thoughts or feelings in the least. 

Audiences love to hear songs about heartbreak and fate and the intertwining of the two, but they never care much to actually witness it.

Furthermore, a sharp eye and unresolved feelings always made for great subject matter, and never for actual performances. 

Over the years, he’s become something of an expert at separating the two. 

Jaskier puts all his focus into the music - it’s not a sad piece, no trace of heartache to be found, it’s not the time and certainly not the place - and when he finishes the song, to polite applause and rehearsed, meaningless appreciation from their overly gracious host, he can only offer an empty smile of his own as he gives an exaggerated bow.

As he does, he risks a quick glance towards the side of the room where he’d left Geralt, but there are far more people milling about by now, and the witcher is nowhere to be seen. 

By the time he’s standing straight again and playing the opening notes to his next piece, an entertainer’s smile is fixed firmly on his face. 

It becomes easier, as the night progresses. It’s less an act, less pretending as the crowd becomes more receptive. Whether or not that’s helped in part by the variety of alcohol that’s been provided doesn’t really matter. When there are people singing and clapping and dancing along, it’s easy to forget about witchers and sorceresses and any manner of ways in which they may be engaged with one another. 

There’s another troupe of musicians, an impressive assortment of instruments but questionable range of vocal talents on hand, but eventually Jaskier leaves them to play on their own for awhile in favour of taking a quick break. 

He adjusts his lute so it’s resting at his back, not feeling so inclined to set it down somewhere and then potentially never seeing it again, and scans the room again with feigned interest. He’s really only looking for one person. Maybe two. 

But he doesn’t see either of them, and doesn’t get far anyway before he pauses due to someone calling his name.

His _actual_ name.

He turns, unsure he’s even the one being called upon, but there’s a woman waving at him as she weaves her way through the crowd, so he raises his own hand in hesitant greeting and waits. 

Jaskier doesn’t recognize her, exactly. She’s older than him by a couple decades at least, dressed impeccably, and not entirely unfamiliar as she smiles like he’s a long lost friend, finally found.

But he can’t, for the life of him, put a name to her cheerful face.

“Julian! Oh, I knew it was you. I’d recognize you anywhere, even after all this time.” She reaches out and pats his cheek fondly, and he’s too surprised to do much else other than smile and nod slightly, and wish desperately that he could say the same.

She carries on, either not noticing or not caring that he’s still at a loss. “I remember like it was yesterday. Such a little thing you were, bright blue eyes and flowers in your hair, and we all knew you had talent. Even then, you loved putting on little performances for us all out in your mother’s garden. Oh, if she could see you now!”

Ah. The pieces click, and even if he still can’t put a name to the face, at least he knows where she’s from. His smile becomes less confused and more practiced, and he gestures out around them. “I’ve come a ways, since then.”

She beams at him. “Haven’t you just!” 

The woman continues talking excitedly, telling stories of his childhood that he barely remembers himself, but he can’t be bothered to pay the full attention she deserves when he notices a couple of familiar figures step out onto the dance floor behind her. 

The musicians have started another song, a quicker, upbeat tune, and something close to jealousy curls unpleasantly in his stomach when he watches Geralt place a hand at Yennefer’s waist, the other gripping her small hand as he begins a very familiar set of steps. 

She’s easily following his lead, and her smile is so genuine now, it’s obvious despite the distance. Geralt is grinning himself, and she even laughs a little when he leans in to whisper something in her ear.

It’s lovely, and absolutely terrible, to watch. 

“And do you remember the plays, Julian? You always loved to recreate your favourite stories. Sometimes you’d even convince Isabel to join in. Oh, the things you two would come up with! I remember one about the mermaid, how we laughed when Bel played the prince and you were -”

“Always a mermaid, never a prince, that’s me.” He hopes his smile hasn’t become too off-putting due to clenched teeth, but it’s hard to do much else as he watches them dance over her shoulder, perfect and disastrous for each other.

But she only chuckles, as if he’s told the cleverest of jokes, and squeezes his arm fondly. “This performer’s life suits you. You’re just where you should be.”

He finally breaks his gaze when the song ends, when Yennefer slips her hands behind Geralt’s neck and the witcher pulls her closer, when neither seem to care at all about decorum or the dozen other couples they’re sharing the floor with. 

“Not quite,” he says, a few seconds delayed and a slight crack in his voice, but the woman comments on neither and instead slips her arm through the crook of his own.

“Would you join us at our table for a time? I’m sure Isabel would be delighted to see you again!”

He asks, in all seriousness, whether there’s alcohol at their table, and smiles faintly when she laughs and nods. “By all means, madam. Lead the way.”

~

When Jaskier returns to his post a short time later, he’s pleasantly buzzed yet unpleasantly still sober enough to notice Geralt and Yennefer have disappeared again. 

But he can’t turn back to a bottle, not yet. His reputation as a talented musician is important enough that he can’t potentially ruin it due to hurt feelings and an abundance of alcohol.

Although he does entertain the thought, many times, throughout the rest of the evening. He sings, he plays, he puts on a show worthy of the coin he’d already been paid.

And later, much, much later, when most of the guests have either departed or retired to their rooms, he finally allows the facade, the smiling and the laughing and the flirting, to drop.

The hall is quiet, nearly empty with the exception of the occasional person slumped over at a table, snoring softly, or a couple giggling quietly to themselves behind a pillar or in the shadows at the edges of the room. 

Jaskier is sitting against one such pillar - one he’d made sure he has to himself - strumming an occasional chord on his lute, but mostly being occupied with the bottle of wine he’d lifted from one of the tables before any remaining food had been cleared away. 

It’s nice, a vintage from Toussaint and pleasant enough company. Hopefully engaging enough, as well, to keep his mind from wandering too far.

He hasn’t seen Geralt - or Yennefer - for hours. Not since their dance. He takes another long drink from the bottle. Maybe it wasn’t distracting enough company after all. 

The thought of simply bringing the bottle to his room is tempting, and in some ways seems less pathetic than moping alone in the corner of a banquet hall, when approaching footsteps draw his attention to look upwards. 

There’s a man walking towards him, seemingly purposeful but not entirely surefooted, likely due to the fact Jaskier had seen him partake in numerous drinking contests throughout the evening. 

He raises the bottle towards him in greeting. “Hello, sir. Care for a drink?”

The man stops just in front of him, arms crossed and glowering downwards with a flushed face, so Jaskier sighs deeply and stands. It’s obvious, where this is going, and he’s better off not sitting at the man’s feet. 

“You know my sister?” he asks, words slurring together slightly. He takes another step forward, so Jaskier is forced to take one backwards and he’s standing with his back against the pillar. 

There may be a few other people scattered throughout the room, who may or may not come to his aid if he yells loudly enough, but he suddenly feels very, very alone. 

And the small dagger, with the shiny jewels and untarnished blade, tucked away safely in his boot, suddenly feels very, very heavy. 

“I’m not sure I’ve been honoured with such a meeting,” he replies, nonchalant, and takes another drink of wine before holding the bottle out again. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like some?” 

The bottle is knocked from his hand with a quick strike, and breaks when it hits the stone floor. The wine spilling across the floor is an unsettling shade of red, and Jaskier looks away from it quickly. “Awful waste, that is. 1222 was an excellent year.”

“Her name is Nicola Demont, of Drassis,” the man’s tone is surprisingly even despite his previous action.

“Oh, of course, Nicola,” Jaskier nods with thoughtful recognition, and then shakes his head just as quickly. He does remember her, and specifically certain aspects of her character that her brother may not be interested in hearing about, quite well and quite fondly. “No, I’m sorry, the name doesn’t ring a bell.”

In an instant he’s pushed against the pillar, the man’s arm at his throat pressing just hard enough to almost cut off his air supply. Jaskier briefly considers his weapon, on his person just as Geralt had requested, and how it might as well be in another room entirely for all the use it could do him now. 

“Heard she ‘met’ a bard in Cidaris. She isn’t married, and he certainly wasn’t her husband. You’re a bard, in Cidaris.”

A sound line of reasoning, for a drunken idiot.

“Good sir, please,” Jaskier does his best to look offended, somewhat difficult to do with an arm pressing into his neck, and he tries in vain to pull it away from him. “I would never.”

He must sound well and truly offended though, because after a moment the pressure against his throat does lessen some. “But...we’re in Cidaris. You’re a bard.” The man sounds more confused now than angry. 

With a bit of effort, Jaskier pulls at his arm again, and this time the man lets it fall back to his side. “Correct. And while I’m undoubtedly the best, I’m not the only one. Perhaps you’ve mistaken me for someone else?” Jaskier rubs at his neck, gingerly, but he’s relatively confident now in the man’s uncertainty and continues onwards without hesitation. “Could be it was Valdo Marx. Bit of a libertine, that one. Terrible voice as well.”

“He’s a bard?”

“More than that! The Troubadour of Cidaris, some of less refined taste might say. But he’s certainly well known, and he’s certainly a bard in Cidaris.” Jaskier pats the man’s arm comfortingly, who in turn looks as though he’s solving some particularly complex puzzles in his brain. “Unfortunately, it sounds as though he’s well known to your sister as well.”

“I should find him,” the man nods, seemingly to himself.

“You should. In the morning, probably. Bit late now.”

The man’s head snaps up suddenly, to meet Jaskier’s eyes with a sudden intensity. “I’m sorry, sir, very sorry I confused you with such a lecherous individual.”

“Don’t even think on it. I’d say it happens, on occasion, but - but it’s nothing, really...” Jaskier drifts off, a little concerned as the man and his earnest stare continue to lean in closer and closer. In a moment he has no choice but to catch the man, who’s tilted so far forward he all but loses his balance and goes toppling into the bard. 

Jaskier holds him up with some effort, and sends an exasperated glance skywards when the man begins snoring quietly, head dropped on his shoulder.

And yet, here he was. Talked his way out of confrontation without a witcher’s help, or the witcher’s gift still safely concealed, shiny and unused.

He would tell Geralt all about it, eventually. A little embellishment here or there, maybe, but the fact remained he’d taken care of it by himself. 

He’s about to set the man down against the pillar, as carefully as he’s able, when another voice calls out across the room.

“Martin! There you are!” 

The words echo slightly in the large, empty room as a woman makes her way towards them. She’s wearing a nightgown and a robe rather than any sort of courtly apparel, her face is bare and her hair down in loose curls around her shoulders, and she seems not to care at all about who might see her in such a state. 

“Well if it isn’t one Nicola Demont, of Drassis.” Jaskier’s voice only strains slightly as he shifts Apparently-Martin in his grip, foregoing the thought of leaving him on the floor given their new company. “We were just talking about you! Heard you’ve been up to some downright scandalous things. Luckily, your darling brother here found the wrong man.”

“No doubt, no doubt,” she gives Jaskier a knowing look, a barely concealed smile, and then she’s gently pulling on her brother’s free arm to loop it around her shoulders. “Would you help me take him back to his room, Jaskier?”

“I’m not sure I should,” he says, a little haughtily despite knowing full well he’ll do exactly that. They begin to half-carry, half-drag the unconscious man between them towards the way Nicola had come. “He said some awfully unflattering things about me.”

She sends him another, more genuine smile over Martin’s bobbing head. “I’m terribly sorry for any doubtless untruthful insults he sent your way.”

“I said they were unflattering, not untruthful.”

She laughs, then, and her voice is warm when she continues. “It’s good to see you again, my friend.”

“And you.” They fall silent, for a time, and concentrate on getting Martin up the stairs while trying to cause as little bruising to his shins as possible. As they start their way down another empty hall, Jaskier continues. “I didn’t see you at the party.”

“I saw you, of course. You were wonderful.” Nicola stops in front of a door and reaches out to open it. She pauses, with her hand on the door, and then turns to Jaskier. Her voice is light, conversational, but her grin and her eyes give her words a less innocent spin. “I’m going to put him to bed, but my own room is two doors down if you’d like to meet me there. I can apologize on behalf of my family, and congratulate you for a lovely performance tonight.”

“Nicola, please.” Jaskier’s tone is equally airy as he follows her into the room to help drop Martin onto the large bed. “My very reputation was mocked by your brother’s words. I’m a whirlwind of emotions, near completely distraught.”

An exaggeration, mostly, even if there is some truth at the heart of it. Truth that doesn’t actually have anything to do with Martin or his drunken mumblings. But she doesn’t need to know that.

“Well, it’s your lucky night then. I think I might know half a dozen ways to help calm that whirlwind for you.” Nicola throws a blanket over her brother’s snoring form and then begins nudging Jaskier back towards the door with her hand at his lower back. 

“Only six ways?” Jaskier does his best to sound disappointed as they close the door behind them. Nicola grabs his hand and leads the way towards her own room.

“Only?” she grins at him. “You’ll be lucky to get through three.”

“I do always enjoy a challenge.” 

Jaskier follows her into the room without further fuss, and instead only sincere enthusiasm. For all that had happened in the previous hours, he is quite ready for half a dozen experiences to help him forget. At least for a little while.

~

And he does forget, for a little while. 

But later, much later, when sleep still doesn’t come and parts of the whirlwind start to pick up again, Jaskier pulls on his shirt and trousers and slips out of Nicola’s room, closing the door carefully behind him. He makes his way towards the large home’s back entrance, bare feet making no sound at all on the plush carpets covering the floors. 

The large, engraved wooden doors open to a wide stone staircase outside, leading down towards a garden and a walking trail beyond that. The night is warm, almost unseasonably so, and Jaskier finds no need for the jacket he hadn’t bothered to grab on his way out. It’s not yet dawn, but it can’t be far off because the sky in the distance is just starting to lighten, dimming any lingering stars and providing just enough light to see the outlines of trees and statues in the garden below. 

And, the silhouette of someone else already sitting on the top step.

Slightly hunched, elbows resting on knees as he stares out at the garden and the hills beyond them. White hair seeming to almost glow softly in the sparse light. 

“Good morning,” he says, voice low, not turning around.

“Is it?” Jaskier sits beside him carefully, glances over at his friend. It’s impossible to see his face, he can only barely make out the witcher’s profile, but his tone has already said a lot. 

As does the fact he’s sitting outside at all, so early in the morning. And alone. 

Geralt grunts noncommittally and doesn’t offer anything else by way of explanation. He doesn’t really need to. 

“Some party, huh?” Jaskier says eventually, having struggled with holding the silence, and losing. Geralt doesn’t reply, and that’s fine. “Couldn’t help but notice some near expert dancing on your part.” He might not be able to see much, but Geralt probably can, so he offers a halfhearted smile as he nudges the witcher lightly. 

“I had a good teacher.” Geralt’s voice is flat, but he’s talking, so it’s still progress. 

Jaskier considers simply agreeing, easygoing and flippant and entirely ignoring the obvious issue at hand, and instead weighs his next words carefully. “She was lucky, to have such a partner.” 

Geralt sighs deeply and drops his head into his hands. “And she still left,” he says after a moment, voice slightly muffled. 

The word _again_ wasn’t spoken, but it’s implication hangs in the air regardless.

Jaskier pats his back placatingly, after only a moment’s hesitation, still walking the fine line between genuine concern and friendly banter. “So when you woke to an empty bed, you came out here to brood by yourself.”

“By myself,” Geralt agrees, head still in his hands. “And yet, here you are.” His voice doesn’t hold any malice, despite the words. He just sounds tired, sad, the opposite of everything he’d seemed the previous day when he first saw Yennefer. 

And, underneath all of that, unsurprised. Perhaps even a little relieved.

“Here I am.” Jaskier gives his friend a final pat on the back before pulling away. “I’ll always find you, Geralt, don’t you worry about that.” His tone is light, joking, entirely contradictory to the sincerity of his words.

They fall into silence again, and Jaskier twists his hands together to resist reaching out again. He stares out at the horizon, slowly becoming more visible and defined as a reddish glow begins to light up the sky, and searches for something else to say. 

And then he starts, slightly, when he feels another hand on top of his own. Geralt’s profile is still mostly shadows when he glances over, and the witcher isn’t looking at him, but his hand is highly effective at stilling Jaskier’s fidgeting. 

“Thank you.” Geralt’s voice is rough, in a way that’s not the norm. It’s sincere, but broken.

The selfish parts of Jaskier, the bits that are always glad when Yennefer disappears in the night, all but vanish entirely at the sound of it. He would spend every day of his life in the woman’s presence, if it meant never hearing his friend speak in such a tone again.

There are many things he could say, but sometimes Geralt’s appreciation of silence wins out over his own preferences.

Jaskier moves one hand so that Geralt’s is resting between both his own and squeezes gently. It only takes a moment for the witcher to return the gesture. 

They sit quietly, side by side and hand in hand, and watch the darkened sky finally give way to vibrant shades of red.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very sorry for the delay! Real life got in the way, unfortunately, and now on top of that I’ve broken my wrist. This chapter was mostly finished before that happened, but the last two might take a little longer as my typing will be much slower for the next few weeks. :( Just a little heads up, and an apology in advance.
> 
> Thank you, as always, for reading! <3


	5. Chapter 5

Over the years, Jaskier has followed Geralt towards countless places and adventures.

Across the Continent, several times over, through vast cities with winding streets and fascinating architecture, along beautiful mountain vistas and sprawling, rugged coastlines. Endless views of beauty and inspiration.

And, on the other side of the tossed coin, he’s also seen more than enough rundown little villages not found on any map, and humid swamps and haunted forests, all crooked trees and low-whistling winds.

Not so beautiful, but maybe a different sort of inspirational.

But not one of those unpleasant places, not the towns or the swamps or the forests, could hold an ominously flickering candle to the absolute shitshow he’s followed the witcher into now.

Or at least, he can only assume as much. He can’t actually see a damned thing, not since Geralt blew his torch out with a focused burst of Aard and told him to hide.

So now he sits in the overwhelming darkness, huddled behind a large rock (he prays to every god he can think of that it’s only a rock) and can only take small consolation in the fact he can still hear Geralt fighting the monster, all heavy clangs of silver and hisses of pain and exertion from witcher and beast alike. He’s holding his dagger in one shaky hand, but he knows it will be all but useless if he needs to try and use it. The training and practice Geralt put him through won’t do any good if he can’t see his target.

He doesn’t even know what kind of monster it is. Certainly not the arachnomorph the villagers outside had claimed it to be, otherwise Geralt would never have agreed to let Jaskier follow him into the cave.

But all the signs had pointed to it being just such a monster, and the villagers had sworn it wasn’t too big - “feisty, real feisty, but can’t be larger than a wolf.” After much persuasion (certainly not begging) on Jaskier’s part and much sighing and grumbling on Geralt’s, the witcher finally told him to stick close as they entered the cave they’d been brought to by some volunteers from the village in need.

“This will be great, just think of the songs that could come from this,” Jaskier had said cheerfully, holding his torch up to inspect the walls of the cave, and not showing the slightest trace of disappointment when all he could see were rocks, rocks, and more rocks. They couldn’t even bother to be interesting rocks. “I’ve never actually seen an arachnomorph before!”

A funny choice of words that turned out to be. He’s still never seen one now.

He would do something, anything to help if he could, but considering he can’t see an inch in front of his face he’s probably being most helpful by staying out of the way.

At least, that’s what he tells himself. Repeatedly. Halfheartedly. The dagger is terribly heavy in his hand. 

It takes an awfully long time - long enough for him to have nearly pulled himself to his feet more than once - but finally, finally there’s one last, gurgling shriek that echoes in the cave, before it cuts off abruptly.

And then there’s nothing, an eery silence replacing the sounds of the fight almost instantly, save for the steady dripping of something hitting the rocky ground and slow, laboured breathing.

“Geralt?” Jaskier is already standing, hands held out in front of him as he slowly moves in the general direction the sounds are coming from. “Geralt, say something. Are you -”

“I’m fine,” Geralt’s voice cuts through the darkness, but not quite reassuringly enough for Jaskier’s liking. “Stop moving.”

He does as told, and sheaths the dagger as he hears footsteps making their way towards him. The torch is pressed back into his hand, and then bursts into flame again. 

The sudden return of light is blinding for a moment, and when Jaskier lowers his arm from sheltering his eyes he nearly drops the torch again in shock.

He’s seen Geralt after he’s taken his witcher’s potions and elixirs before, of course. He’d look downright ghastly, sometimes, darkened eyes and black veins creeping their way up his neck and across his unnaturally pale face. 

But this is different. There are still dark veins, pupils still blown out thanks to a Cat potion - all but completely hiding the golden colour of his eyes that Jaskier’s grown so fond of - but there’s more besides. Streaks of red have joined the black under his skin, branching out from a spot on his neck currently hidden by Geralt’s hand. He’s swaying, slightly, and fumbling for something in the small leather pouch on his belt.

“I’m fine,” he says again, more insistently, before Jaskier can start bombarding him with worried questions. “I just need...fuck.” Geralt pulls his hand away to reveal shards of broken glass in the palm of his glove, dripping with a pale blue liquid.

“What? What is that?”

“The antidote.”

“The anti- what?!” Jaskier is finding it difficult to emulate Geralt’s near entirely calm demeanour, feeling anything but, especially when the witcher drops the hand at his neck to reveal a long, jagged cut, slowly oozing blood. “What was it? Are you dying?! What do I do? I -”

“An arachnomorph,” Geralt interrupts him again, dropping the glass in his hand in favour of retrieving his sword from the ground beside him and sheathing it quickly. 

Jaskier, keenly aware of the fact Geralt only decided to answer his first question, raises the torch higher to see further behind the witcher. “But I thought it wasn’t....oh sweet Melitele, that is a huge fucking spider.”

“Arachnomorph,” Geralt says again, following Jaskier’s gaze towards the dead monster behind him. Spider-like in every way, except for it’s size which was less like a wolf and more like a house.

A very small house, but _still_.

“Come on.” Geralt pulls him out of his shock, literally, grabbing his arm and walking the way they had come, but even through the fabric of his jacket Jaskier can feel the slight tremble in the witcher’s fingers.

“What happened? Are you hurt? Are you poisoned? What should I do?” Jaskier is keeping up with Geralt easily as he starts the stream of questions again. Far too easily, actually, and he throws a hand out to steady his friend when he stops suddenly, swaying alarmingly again.

Geralt drops a heavy hand on Jaskier’s shoulder to steady himself and takes a few slow breaths. “I’ll be fine,” he says, after a moment, and Jaskier isn’t one to miss the rather critical change in his statement compared to previous times.

“You’ll _be_ fine? As in, you’re not fine now. As in -”

“Got a bit close. Their fangs are venomous.” Geralt finally confirms what Jaskier had been fearing, and his own blood runs a little colder at the admission. “But I’ve got more antidotes, in the saddlebags. So we’ve got to go.”

“Right, yeah, absolutely. What are we waiting for?” Jaskier keeps his hand at Geralt’s back, keeps his friend steady as they start for the entrance again. Slowly, painfully slowly if they’re moving to race against a venomous clock, but it’s steady progress and Jaskier knows the witcher is only making a concentrated effort in slowing the spread, in keeping his heartbeat as slow as possible. 

But his breathing is frighteningly laboured by the time they can see the light of the cave’s entrance ahead, and Jaskier tosses the torch aside in favour of using both arms to keep Geralt supported.

It’s both a relief and even more worrying that Geralt allows him to do so without comment or resistance.

“I’ll have a thing or two to say to those fellows outside...” Jaskier mutters, keeping one of Geralt’s arms secure around his shoulders when the witcher stumbles slightly. It’s easier to talk than be left to his own terrified thoughts. “‘No bigger than a wolf,’ they said. Ha! I’m not interested in seeing the wolves they’ve got around here. Sounds bloody terrifying.” He thinks he hears an amused scoff from Geralt, but then again, it might have only been a wheeze. “Not much further, my friend. Daylight just ahead, what a pleasant change from dark, damp, and dreary, wouldn’t you agree?”

He doesn’t receive an answer, but he wasn’t really expecting one. 

They reach the mouth of the cave minutes later, and the adjustment of light as they approached was gradual enough that Jaskier can see outside well enough almost immediately. He knows Geralt wouldn’t be able to say the same, not right away. The Cat potion would take some time to wear off, and Geralt’s eyesight would be overly sensitive until it did so. 

Sure enough, the witcher raises a heavy arm, the one not slung around Jaskier’s shoulders, to shield his eyes as they move away from the cave. 

The small meadow is just as they’d left it, empty save for three of the villagers sitting crosslegged in a makeshift circle, playing cards and bottles in hand, and one familiar horse. Roach had been grazing a short distance away, but raises her head, ears pricked forward as she considers the sorry pair exiting the cave. And then she’s walking towards them, quick and calm, and Jaskier is ever grateful for the intelligent mare. 

The villagers, on the other hand, are still sitting, watching them carefully without a word, and Jaskier considers the thought that Roach might have actually been the _most_ intelligent creature in the meadow. And he’s still got words for them, more than a few, but they can wait for the moment.

He turns his back to them, helps Geralt to lean against his horse and then sets himself to searching through the closest saddlebag. He must have chosen the right one, because Geralt doesn’t correct him using words or gestures, instead only watches with blown out pupils and shallow breaths. 

Jaskier finds a selection of carefully preserved bottles, all packed safely in their small, reinforced chest, and tries desperately to calm his own trembling hands so as to not break any of them as he opens the lid. He has no idea which is the right one - something blue, maybe? - so he holds the chest up for Geralt to inspect. As he does, he hears a rough voice behind him. 

“Killed the beast then, eh, witcher?” The voice isn’t directly behind him, still some ways off, so he doesn’t feel inclined to turn and confront the man quite yet. Holding the chest steady for Geralt to select his appropriate potion is far more pressing a task.

But the man’s voice hadn’t been all that happy, or relieved, or even interested. If Jaskier hadn’t been otherwise preoccupied, he might have said it had almost sounded disappointed. 

A cold feeling of dread forms in his gut, and once Geralt selects two small vials from the chest and leans away again, Jaskier snaps the lid shut and replaces the chest before finally turning around. The dread twists and he makes to cover his worry with a cheeky grin as he takes in the three men standing not a dozen feet away. Varying grimaces on previously welcoming faces, and short swords held loosely at their sides. 

“That he did. Just as you asked, gentlemen.” Jaskier places his hands on his hips, a halfhearted attempt to still their trembling, and keeps himself planted firmly between the men and the witcher behind him uncorking vials as quickly as his ailing body would allow. “Don’t sound so down about it! Honestly, the price that was agreed upon, given the actual size of the thing, seems awfully weighted in your favour. You should be nothing short of delighted!”

The men don’t move closer, nor to they sheathe their blades. “Here’s the thing,” the first one says, and he smiles unpleasantly to reveal blackened and missing teeth. “We weren’t much counting on having to pay him.”

“Ah. Desperate times and all that. Well, I’m sure we can come to some sort of agreement...” Jaskier drifts off as the man shakes his head with some sort of mock solemnity. 

“You misunderstand me, friend. We weren’t intending to pay the witcher, because we weren’t expecting him to succeed.”

Jaskier nods slowly, feigning thoughtfulness, and lets one hand drop to his side. He can grab his dagger, probably, in the time it would take for the men to reach them. “I see. More’s the pity.” He smiles again, but it’s an empty gesture and he sighs, shakily but still maintaining some of the dramatic disappointment he’d been aiming for. “I’m not your friend, either, am I?”

“No, I suppose you’re not.” 

And then the men are rushing towards them, and Jaskier realises too late that he’d dreadfully misjudged the amount of time he’d have while they crossed the short span between them. He isn’t going to have time to reach his weapon, but then it doesn’t matter because there’s a heavy hand on his shoulder for just an instant, and he’s pushed forcefully to the side.

He hits the ground hard, and Geralt is already in the space he’d been standing a moment before, steel sword drawn and meeting the lead villager’s own blade with a loud clang of metal. Geralt’s arms buckle slightly at the impact, something that wouldn’t have affected him at all normally, but then he pushes back with a focused effort and the other man staggers backwards a few steps.

The final steps he’d ever take, because he also lowered his sword a fraction when he did, probably unconsciously, but Geralt wastes no time with his next swing and the man’s head rolls to a halt near Jaskier’s feet. 

He stares at it, for a moment, into fearful, unseeing eyes and at the blood staining the earth below a darkened red, but another clash of swords snaps his head upwards again even as he’s reaching for the dagger in his boot.

There are only two men, and again, if Geralt were at his best it wouldn’t have bothered him in the least. But he’s clearly already tired, weakened in his current state as the potions haven’t had enough time to do their work, and the men have the witcher flanked. One of them has his back to Jaskier, isn’t paying the bard any mind at all, and from his spot on the ground Jaskier can see his opportunity.

Just under the ribs seems best, given his current perspective. That would be very effective. He’d been told that, once. 

Jaskier lurches to his feet, weapon in hand, and uses the momentum to reach the closer man, still facing the witcher and about to bring a heavy swing down with his sword. The dagger in Jaskier’s hand is feather-light, and finds its way into the man’s back near effortlessly. The man gives a gasp, one that sounds more surprised than pained, but his sword drops to his side as he stumbles forwards. Jaskier moves with him, pushes the blade deeper and goes down with the man when he falls to his knees a moment later. 

He pulls the knife out, and takes no notice of the bright blood already staining the man’s tunic when he stabs him again. And again.

And again.

The man’s voice is full of pain and panic as he cries out for help, but the final villager is fully occupied by Geralt and his sword and wouldn’t be able to assist even if he wanted to. His arm reaches around, he’s trying to twist his body, desperately trying to do anything to stop the assault, but Jaskier shoves him forward so his face hits the ground with a dull crack and doesn’t let up in the least.

The man is wailing now, hands weakly scrabbling at the ground beneath him in a fruitless attempt to drag himself away. It’s almost like a song. A disjointed, macabre song.

Strangely, Jaskier hears his mother’s soft voice, somewhere through the haze in his mind and the shrieking of the other man. “The mermaid couldn’t take another life, Julian. When she needed to most, when her own life depended on it, she couldn’t do it.”

But he isn’t the mermaid.

He can’t be. He _won’t_ be.

And then, his mind is blissfully blank with the exception of an almost overwhelming white-hot need to help Geralt - how _dare_ they attack an injured man, injured in an attempt to help them. All Geralt ever did was help people, and this is how he was repaid?

The man would be sorry he ever thought of crossing the witcher. His witcher. His friend. His -

“Jaskier.”

The name sounds distant, and it’s difficult to hear because someone is still screaming. But then he hears it again, accompanied by a firm hand on his shoulder, and the screaming stops abruptly when he finally looks up from his brutal task to see Geralt kneeling beside him. The witcher’s face is still pale, but the darkened veins are fading and there’s a ring of gold reappearing around his pupils. Jaskier wants to smile at the sight, but the look on Geralt’s face gives him pause. Concern and something else that could only be worry, and no attempt at all to mask either of them.

“You can stop,” Geralt's voice is gentle, placing his other hand on Jaskier’s forearm, and Jaskier glances back down as he does. 

Everything is red.

His hands. His arms. His clothes and his rings and his dagger - no longer shiny and new, yellow gems hidden beneath blood that drips off the tip of the blade. 

He’s still straddling the man’s body, still kneeling over him where he’d fallen some time before, and then stopped begging, and then stopped breathing sometime shortly after that. His back is a mess of shredded fabric and mutilated skin, and entirely covered in the same red staining Jaskier’s hands. 

But Jaskier doesn’t react further, he only stares. Doesn’t move at all until Geralt is pulling on his arm, hauling him to his feet and leading him away from the body. The dagger still held tightly in his grip leaves a bloody trail in their wake.

“Look at me,” Geralt says, it could have been minutes or hours later, but somehow Jaskier is sitting on the ground and the witcher is kneeling in front of him again. Jaskier does as told, even cracks a little smile. 

“You don’t have to ask,” he replies, and he wants it to sound teasing, but it’s strange because instead his voice barely sounds like him at all. It’s quiet, and wavering, and his smile turns to a frown at the sound of it. 

“Are you okay?” Geralt asks, firmly but with concern still evident, hand now resting on the side of Jaskier’s face instead in an effort to maintain eye contact. 

Jaskier lets out a short laugh, and again he’s surprised because it sounds more like a sob. He grabs Geralt’s hand and holds onto it almost desperately. “I’m okay. Of course I’m okay.” His voice is almost shrill now, breaths quick and unsteady, but somehow he can’t be bothered to care. He clings to Geralt’s hand on his cheek more tightly, smearing blood on his own face and the witcher’s hand both. “Are you? Are you okay?”

“Yes.” Geralt doesn’t pull his hand away, but he’s staring with such worry, such sorrow and concern. Jaskier’s never seen emotion so clearly on the man’s face, it’s near disconcerting. 

“Are you sure? You don’t seem okay.” 

Geralt smiles faintly, as though it’s meant to be reassuring. It’s not, though, not really. “I am. Thanks to you. Twice today, thanks to you.”

Jaskier nods, almost jerkily, and gestures vaguely in the direction of the body they’d moved away from with his free hand. He must have dropped the dagger at some point. Oh well. “Don’t worry, Geralt. You’re my best friend. I’ve got your back.”

“I know,” Geralt agrees in a tone that almost seems he’s trying to sound calming, but his eyes are still so, so sad. 

Jaskier wants to comfort him. He shouldn’t be so sad. They’re both okay. 

He reaches out with the hand not still clasped around Geralt's, sees the red, and lets it drop back to his side instead. He doesn’t want to get more blood on his friend. Geralt is covered in the stuff already - his own, monster, human - Jaskier shouldn’t make it worse.

“I’ve got your back,” he says again, and he wants to give Geralt’s hand a squeeze, but it’s likely ineffective as his own hand has started trembling again. “Not like that guy, huh? He doesn’t even have a back, not anymore.” 

Jaskier gives another shaky laugh, and then promptly bursts into tears. 

But Geralt must not care about the blood after all, because he pulls Jaskier into a hug, tight and unexpectedly comforting, and doesn’t let go until long after the sobs have quietened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! I’m so sorry for the delay. The final chapter won’t take nearly as long - my cast comes off soon, and I have a lot of extra free time these days...
> 
> I hope you’re all staying safe and healthy. And thank you, of course, for reading!! <3


	6. Chapter 6

They sit together for a long, long time. 

Geralt’s arms are wrapped firmly around him, and Jaskier doesn’t do much more than cling to him with trembling hands and cry into his shoulder. It’s not comfortable at all, sitting in the dirt and covered in the blood of a man he’d only met that day, but he doesn’t let go even after the sobs have finally stopped and his breathing is more or less steady, save for a hiccup or two. And Geralt doesn’t either, doesn’t loosen his grip at all until Jaskier finally lifts his head from the witcher’s shoulder and scrubs at his face with a filthy sleeve. 

“I’m sorry, got a bit carried away there.” His words sound hoarse, and solemn, and lack any lightheartedness he might have intended to portray. 

He half expects Geralt to reply with a jest of his own, his own attempt to lighten the mood, and then pull him to his feet and pretend none of it had never happened. 

He would prefer that, actually.

But Geralt only pulls away slightly, drops one arm and leaves the other resting on Jaskier’s shoulders, and hits him with a question the bard wouldn’t have anticipated. “Jaskier, that was...why did you do that?”

He scoffs, to imply the witcher has asked him a truly absurd question. Or at least, he tries to, but the effect is likely ruined thanks to a particularly untimely hiccup. “Why did I save your life? Oh, I don’t know, I guess I’d just decided to try something new today.”

It sounds weak, even to him. His shaky attempts at downplaying anything are in vain, because Geralt doesn’t crack a smile, doesn’t reply with equally nonchalant words. 

“No one would blame you for what happened, it was self defence. You were protecting us both,” Geralt says carefully, calmly, his gaze steady but still reflecting all the worry and uncertainty he doesn’t allow his words to convey. “But that was...something more. What happened?”

Jaskier drops his gaze, then, lets his hands drop as well and twists them tightly together in his lap. The dried blood covering his hands crack and flake unpleasantly. His voice is uncharacteristically monotone as he answers, staring firmly at the ground in front of them. “You mean, why did I respond with such unexpected intensity? Enthusiastic violence? Why was it such an act of _passion_ , a particularly descriptive sort might suggest?”

Jaskier can’t see how Geralt reacts to his words, but isn’t surprised when the witcher carries on regardless. “Wh-”

“Don’t be daft, Geralt. Just don’t.” Now his tone is level. Defeated. Strangely hollow. “You know damned well why.”

The silence that follows is long, and it confirms his statement more than any worded response would have, and Jaskier tries to focus on picking blood from under his fingernails rather than cause himself any further heartache by considering that revelation. 

It doesn’t work, of course. 

He’d known for years, he’d _always_ known, but by never asking, never outright declaring his feelings, he’d been able to allow himself to consider situations that would never happen.

Wishful thinking was always easier when there was never solid proof to verify it was just that.

And how many times had he daydreamed of this moment? The secluded meadow is a nice backdrop for such an occasion, for declarations of undying love and devotion and loyalty, though nothing else really matches up with the tales he’d loved to hear as a child. The defeated villains haven’t left him with a sense of victory. There isn’t music, or parades, the sun doesn’t break through the clouds to give them a heavenly spotlight, and there certainly won’t be a ball or a party later on. There aren’t cheering, happy crowds wishing them good fortune, and there certainly won’t be a teary, joyful reciprocation of his confession, vague as it may have been.

It was the closest he’d ever come to confessing outright, at the very least. The moment finally arrived, perhaps in the absolute worst time and place - and he can’t even find it in himself to react with more than broken laugh. Years worth of unspoken thoughts, all the ways he could have finally told Geralt, whether honestly simple or with the flowery prose he loved to spin for songs, and it had ended with _that_. 

Maybe that was for the better, though. 

He hadn’t said a lot, but it had still been too much. 

Jaskier had said his piece, and then nothing else when Geralt didn’t reply, and now he sits quietly, his own disheartened thoughts more engaging company than the silent witcher at his side, who still has yet to say a thing.

He could crack a joke, pretend to brush it all off, get up and walk away, start crying again - anything. _Anything_ would be better than the silence.

But he doesn’t. He doesn’t move, he doesn’t look towards his friend, he doesn’t say another word. He just waits. 

And holds on to the smallest sliver of hope he has left, despite the fact he knows he shouldn’t. 

What he ought to do is shift that hope. At this point, the most he should hope for is that Geralt chooses to ignore his words, forget them, whatever - anything that wouldn’t end with him leaving Jaskier behind, dropping him in some tavern or forest and not looking back because the bard had finally, finally said too much.

“We should go,” the witcher finally says, voice gruff and unreadable as he stands. “Others from the village might come looking for their friends.”

Their friends. Jaskier glances across the meadow before he can even think about it, but - perhaps thankfully - the tall grass has all but completely obscured the bodies he knows still lay there. Had the man he’d killed had friends? Family? People who cared for him, who loved him, who’d worry when he didn’t come home? They would set out to look for him and eventually, finally, find his remains rotting in the sun, desecrated first by a blade, and then crows, and then maybe worse. People who would wonder what happened to him, who would never find out, who would never have the solemn peace that knowledge would bring to help them sleep at night. 

He blinks hard, once, twice, and a small, sharp pain causes him to look towards his hands. There’s fresh blood welling up in his palms, and he realises he’d been clenching his fists tightly enough for his nails to break the skin at the same time he realises something else. 

He doesn’t care about any of that, not really. He doesn’t care about the man or his friends or his family. He doesn’t care, because it’s better for that man to be dead than Geralt.

Even if he is a terribly insensitive fool, sometimes. 

After all, when Jaskier was very young, his mother had told him a story each night before bed. 

And he’d loved those stories, every one, even if he didn’t always understand them.

Like the one about the mermaid who died of a broken heart. Who gave up so much for a man who would never love her back, who made great sacrifices for that prince, who lost her voice and eventually her life.

He didn’t understand the mermaid as a child, and he doesn’t understand her now.

The mermaid who couldn’t take another life, even when her own happiness was at stake, her future full of love and a happily ever after. She couldn’t do it. She was kind, and selfless, and thought of others before herself. 

But Jaskier isn’t selfless, and he isn’t a mermaid in a child’s bedtime story. He’d thought only about Geralt, and himself, and how he wasn’t willing to risk his own future of being at the witcher’s side. Even at the cost of another man’s life.

The tears in his eyes and the blood in his hands aren’t for the dead man or his family or his friends, because Jaskier isn’t a gallant fairytale hero.

But he must have been sitting there for too long, without any reply or acknowledgement, because there’s a hand at his elbow guiding him to his feet and towards Roach, who is regarding him with far more care than ought to be expected from a horse. 

“You should ride for awhile.” Geralt’s voice is still indecipherable, and when Jaskier finally looks at him his expression is much the same. 

“Do you think they really deserved that, Geralt?”

“Yes.” The witcher’s answer is resolute, but his next words let slip slightly more emotion, his concern still evident and shining through. “A word of advice, though. Don’t think about it.”

Geralt should know better - all Jaskier ever does is think. But he replies only with a small nod and climbs into the saddle, not entirely surefooted but steady enough. 

They leave three mutilated bodies in a pretty little meadow behind, without another word.

~*~

The rest of the afternoon continues to be strangely, dreadfully quiet. 

Maybe in a different time and circumstance, Geralt would have made some remark, full of friendly sarcasm and quiet fondness, commenting on the peace and how nice it was to hear only the birds and the wind for a change. 

But he doesn’t say a thing. And neither does Jaskier. 

Geralt sends more than a few glances his way, quick and studying, Jaskier notices out of the corner of his eye. He doesn’t look away from Roach’s mane to meet the witcher’s eyes, and he doesn’t speak a word. 

His thoughts are dreadful, unhappy company, but he doesn’t dare bring up conversation with Geralt again. Not yet. 

They don’t stop in the village where Geralt had been hired - they go well around it, just in case - and they don’t stop at any other town either. They travel for the rest of the day, and the sun has just dipped below the horizon when Geralt finally leads Roach off the road and a short ways into the trees.

Jaskier dismounts with stiff legs, gives Roach a fond pat on the neck and then moves to help Geralt set up camp, as he has so many times before. 

He goes through the motions of unsaddling the mare and laying out bedrolls and collecting firewood with the same efficiency as always, but without a story or a tune to make the work pass more quickly.

He doesn’t say a thing. And then, Geralt finally does. 

“There’s a stream, just over there.” The witcher points a short ways off, and Jaskier glances in the given direction. He can’t see anything, but he believes Geralt all the same. He always does. “If you want to get cleaned up.” 

He does, very much so. His clothes are near stiff as his body, for reasons far more macabre than sitting in a saddle all day. They hadn’t come across many other travelers that day, and those they had stayed well away from the two blood-covered men sharing the road with them.

Geralt’s suggestion was natural. It was logical and to be expected. And yet, Jaskier can’t help the thoughts that leap into his head, the ones he’d been trying to keep at a distance all day with a slowly growing sense of desperation, nor can he stop himself from giving voice to them with hurried words.

“Not looking to get rid of me now, are you?” 

“I’m not,” Geralt replies patiently, slowly adding timber to the fire he’d already started. “Only looking to avoid welcoming any unpleasant company tonight with the scent of blood.”

Jaskier smiles thinly, can’t bother to do anything more as he digs a cleaner shirt and a sliver of soap out of a saddlebag and turns in the direction Geralt had pointed. “Right, right...”

Sure enough, there’s a small river running on the other side of a slight incline, just enough so that Jaskier can no longer see the campsite. But the stream is quiet, and he can still hear the distant crackling of the campfire, and that will have to be enough to try and settle his fraying nerves as he pulls off his ruined clothes and steps into the cold water. 

Geralt wouldn’t leave, right? Not now, not after everything...

He should never have said anything. 

He scrubs himself and his clothes as quickly as he can, and if anyone ever asked, he’d almost be embarrassed to admit how painfully his heart is thudding in his chest as he makes the short trek back to camp. Damp, shivering, wet clothes bundled in his arms.

Terrified of what he might - or might not - find near the fire. 

But nothing has changed at all, save for the rabbit now slowly cooking on a spit over the flames. Geralt is tending to it, but looks up when Jaskier approaches.

“All right?” The witcher is regarding him curiously, and Jaskier frowns as he wills himself to calm down, to stop giving the man further reason to question him. 

He takes a few deep breaths, dropping his clothes near the fire. “Yes.”

His answer is short, but truthful overall. All right as he could be. 

Geralt only nods as he stands up, heading towards the river himself, and Jaskier dutifully sits down on his bedroll to keep an eye on their dinner. 

A glimmer catches his notice out of the corner of his eye, and he turns to see a very familiar blade resting on the blanket beside him. He picks it up after a moment’s hesitation, almost warily, and the firelight reflects off of shining steel and gemstones. 

One could have assumed it had never been used at all, so carefully had it been cleaned. 

Geralt must notice Jaskier’s red rimmed eyes and small sniffles when he returns a short time later, but he doesn’t say a thing as he sits beside his friend. Nor does he comment on the dagger tucked safely in Jaskier’s boot. Instead, he only takes a moment to check the small bandage at his neck and to tie wet hair back from his face with a strip of leather, and then he moves to divvy up their meal.

Neither of them speak until long after they’re finished eating, but it’s not so unpleasant now, and it feels like there’s less pressure to do so. To the point that Jaskier is almost content to sit silently and stare into the flames, warm and full and mind more at peace than it has been for hours, but their roles truly must have reversed for the day because eventually, Geralt breaks the silence again. 

“Vesemir used to tell us a story, when we were young at Kaer Morhen,” he begins, sounding almost unsure. Jaskier is surprised, and a little confused, but he doesn’t want to throw the witcher off, to ruin this unexpected moment, this...whatever it is, so he stays silent aside from quiet encouragement to continue. 

Geralt tells him the tale of a cat and a fox, of the latter’s arrogance as he told the cat of all the ways he could outwit a hunter, and of the former’s modesty in explaining he only knew of one. When the hunters arrived, the cat ran up a tree to save himself.

“But the fox, for all of his grand plans and ideas, couldn’t do anything to stop himself from being killed by the hunters and their hounds.” Geralt falls silent for a time, and Jaskier realises he must be finished.

“Geralt, that was...a terrible story,” he says finally, deadpan, but with the hint of a smile on his lips. 

Geralt laughs, low and genuine, and shrugs as he throws another branch into the flames. “I’ve never claimed to be a storyteller.”

Jaskier rests his chin on his hands as he stares at the fire. “Give them a little more personality next time, higher stakes. Maybe the fox is worried about being turned into a scarf. Or a muff. And elaborate on the moral, at the very least.”

“I don’t intend to be regaling many others with tales told to me as a child,” Geralt replies after a moment, sounding more solemn than he had just before, but still just as honest. 

And Jaskier understands his intention, difficult as it may have been for the witcher to portray. 

“Thank you, Geralt.” 

Geralt gives him a quiet hum of acknowledgement, and out of the corner of his eye Jaskier can see him turn yellow eyes back to the fire before he speaks again. 

“Jaskier?”

His name sounds hesitant on Geralt’s lips, and Jaskier feels his heart start up another urgent rhythm in spite of himself. He doesn’t move though, doesn’t turn towards the witcher. “Yes?”

He’d wanted it to sound nonchalant. Instead it's almost as tentative as Geralt’s one-worded question. 

Geralt frowns at the fire, sighs deeply, an almost exasperated sounding rumble in his chest, before he seems to take his sweet time choosing his words. “The things you said this morning...they weren’t all that different from the sorts of things you always say.”

Jaskier gives a short laugh, humourless, and hopes Geralt can hear his response over his near frantic heartbeat. He should _never_ have said anything. “And?”

“And I just mean it doesn’t change anything. I don’t want you to be upset, think things are different now. They aren’t.”

That final sliver of hope in his chest gives an unpleasant twist, and he knows Geralt’s words aren’t true, even if the witcher meant them to be. 

He needs to squash that hope, painful as it may be. 

“And they won’t ever be different, right?” The words are heavy, still somewhat ambiguous, but Geralt isn’t an idiot so he doesn’t dare look at his friend.

“Right,” Geralt replies quietly, after a moment, and the sincere remorse in one small word doesn’t do much to lessen the ache in Jaskier’s heart as that last bit of hope finally shatters. 

He lets his hands slide into his hair as his head hangs a little lower, and he stares resolutely at the ground between his knees because it’s less humiliating to let the dirt see him blink back tears. He clears his throat, and speaks with an impressive lack of emotion. “Well, I’m glad we finally got that cleared up.”

Jaskier feels a gentle hand on his shoulder and resists the urge to flinch away. “I’m sorry.” Geralt’s voice is soft, and the authenticity behind it only makes Jaskier want to cry all the more. The words take time, like it’s taking a physical effort for the witcher to say them, but he carries on regardless. “I know how you feel, about me. I’ve known for a long time. And I can’t...I can’t be that, for you.”

Jaskier gives another laugh, more shaky, perhaps even a touch on the hysterical side, and he finally looks up to meet Geralt’s gaze with blurry eyes. “Geralt, please stop. This isn’t some sappy ballad or play, and I don’t want to do this, we can just carry on like nothing ever -”

“Just one more thing, then.” Geralt had cut him off quickly, but then takes another moment before he continues. “I still want you to know you’re important to me.”

The grip on his shoulder tightens, and Jaskier can only assume Geralt is struggling to maintain their eye contact given all the sudden heart to heart he’s brought upon himself, so the least he can do is continue to uphold it on his end. 

“That’s sweet, Geralt, really sweet.” He plasters on a watery smile, wishes for his friend to relax a little. A funny world it was, that a man who spends his life slaying monsters and men without a second thought would be struggling now with a few heartfelt words. “So what do we do now? Shake hands? Hug? A little kiss?”

It’s a jest strictly for his friend’s benefit, because the hope he was so sure had died still manages to give another painful twinge at the words. Letting go of it entirely might take longer than he’d hoped for, after all. 

But it pays off. Geralt laughs quietly again and lessens his grip the slightest amount. “You’re my dearest friend, Jaskier.” His words sound lighter now, though not less meaningful, like the joke had made it easier for him to carry on. “Your presence makes the Path easier to walk, and I’ll be sorry to see you leave should you decide to move on.” 

There’s sorrow now too, reflecting in golden eyes Jaskier can’t look away from even as he feels his mouth fall open slightly in shock. But then he laughs, bemused, and takes Geralt’s hand from his shoulder and holds it with his own without a second thought. “You think I’m leaving?”

If Jaskier didn’t know better, he would have said there’s the slightest trace of a blush high on the witcher’s cheeks. Surely just a trick of the firelight, though. “Well, now that you know we’re not...that we won’t be...”

Jaskier sighs, long, drawn out and all dramatics, and gives Geralt’s hand a little shake for emphasis. “Geralt of Rivia. My friend, my muse, and all around blockhead.” 

Geralt scoffs as he opens his mouth to retort, but Jaskier cuts him off. 

“Hold on, you had your moment to spill your heart and your thoughts, now it’s my turn.” He takes a deep breath, glances down at their hands before returning his gaze to meet Geralt’s eyes. “I love you, of course I do. And if I can only do that as a friend, as a traveling companion and fellow adventurer, as a drinking buddy and an occasional partner in crime and so many other things besides, then I am more than happy to do so. It’s far better than not loving you at all.”

And there it is. The _actual_ moment he’d been waiting for for years. It wasn’t at all how he’d ever imagined it, not the location or the circumstance and certainly not the words themselves, but somehow he already feels a little better for having finally said them. 

Geralt stares at him a moment before smiling, almost cautiously, and if the witcher blinks a little too quickly a time or two, Jaskier is happy to blame it on the smoke from the fire for his benefit.

“You’re a good man, and a better friend,” he says eventually, voice rougher than it had been a moment before. “And incredibly selfless.”

Jaskier thinks of all the times Geralt had gotten into trouble on his behalf or because he refused to be left behind, of meetings with Yennefer and of storybook mermaids and of the dead man laying in a meadow miles behind them, and doesn’t think he can agree. 

But he only shrugs, and smiles back - and that’s easier now, too - and finally lets go of Geralt’s hand. “I’m a lot of things, most of them are good.”

“Humble is near the top of the list, without a doubt.”

“Quick-witted, too. You ever change your mind about that little kiss, you let me know.”

He knows it will be a work in progress for some time yet, but Geralt’s chuckle eases the ache in his chest just a little more. 

They place their bedrolls side by side, let the fire die down somewhat to better see the sky, and Jaskier listens attentively as Geralt gestures towards constellations in the stars with far more enthusiasm than he’d had for the story about the fox. 

Then it’s Jaskier’s turn, and he tells Geralt a story he’d heard from his mother a long time ago, about stars being reflections of those who care for you. Geralt is the most receptive listener he’s ever had for the tale, and even takes the time to point out two specific stars far above them, side by side and shining brilliantly. 

It might not be the ending Jaskier had always dreamed about. It might not be his perfect, fairytale ending. 

That doesn’t mean they can’t make it a happy one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (And then That One Fight You Know The One never happens and they live happily ever after, the end.)
> 
> We’ve finally made it! Thank you to everyone who stuck around to the end despite that delay, and to those who took the time to leave comments. I appreciate it so, so much. 
> 
> Also! [whenthewallfell](https://whenthewallfell.tumblr.com/) created an absolutely beautiful piece of art based on the last scene, definitely [ check it out](https://whenthewallfell.tumblr.com/post/616023473187373056/starlight-just-a-little-something-inspired-by-i)!
> 
> Until the next one, stay safe, and thanks again for reading! <3


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